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“She would often play for her guests and callers , and 
hearing her play was the chief charm about their visits 
Page 13. 


RECLAIMED 

THE STORY OF A PARISH 

RENDERED FROM THE SWEDISH 


HILLIS GRANE 


BY 



ERNST W. OLSON 




Rock Island, Illinois 
AUGUSTANA BOOK CONCERN 



COPYRIGHT, 1920, 

BY 

Augustana Book Concern 



©CI.A597219 

I 

AUG 30 1920 


( 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

I. The Solitude 5 

II. The New Parson 10 

III. Life for Life 18 

IV. After Twenty Years 24 

V. Harriet 31 

VI. “What Think You of Christ?” 37 

VII. Moor Farm Misery 42 

VIII. A Vacation Visitor 46 

IX. On the Joy of Being Alive. 50 

X. Letters That Kill 56 

XI. A Maiden Wooed and Won 63 

XII. The Spirit That Giveth Life 69 

XIII. Sunnycrest 76 

XIV. Heart Speaking to Heart 87 

XV. Impending Disaster 91 

XVI. Death at the Threshold 97 

XVII. The Coming of Little Hans 107 

XVIII. The Little Invalid 114 

XIX. An Angel in the House 121 

XX. The Crisis 127 

XXI. The Martyr’s Deathbed 136 

XXII. Springtime at Last 140 

XXIII. “The Greatest of These Is Love” 144 

























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I. 

The Solitude 

A GREAT, oppressive silence rested over the ex- 
tensive church parish — the silence and quietude 
of death. Dark and ominous, it brooded on the 
deep forests, the broad, desolate, pathless moors and marsh- 
es, where bogs and fens and quagmires lurked at every turn. 
A dense fog often rose out of the soggy lowlands, envelop- 
ing the region as in a dark veil. The early autumn nights 
frequently undid the work of all the toilsome days of 
spring and summer by bringing in the wake of the dismal 
mists from the swamps disastrous frosts which blighted 
the fields while the grain was still growing. 

On the scattered farms and in sparse clearings the chil- 
dren of this great solitude toiled on in gloomy reticence. 
Men of few words were those who tilled the impoverished 
soil, their backs prematurely bent by too hard work. 
Women with silent tongues and heavy hearts went their 


6 


daily round of monotonous toil. Mothers did not smile 
over the crib of their last-born — tired mothers, knowing, 
as they did, that this meant another mouth to feed and 
just so much added to their grueling household cares. The 
father of a newborn babe had no smile for the infant, and 
scarcely cast a glance in the direction of the cradle. Why 
should he? The little mite meant nothing to him until it 
could begin to give an account of itself. 

Man and wife spoke little with one another, and were 
never known to exchange smiles. And why, indeed, should 
they? Life to them was one endless workaday grind. 
There was not the faintest tinge of holiday glamour about 
it; only work, work; no joy, and yet no very profound 
sorrow. For when should a mother smile, if not at her 
child’s cradle? And a wife who could note with indif- 
ference that her husband’s pulls at the rum bottle grew 
more frequent and indispensable as the years passed, and 
that he grew wild, depraved, and bestial by stages, what, 
forsooth, could cause such a one true sorrow? 

Silence ruled everywhere in this desolate solitude. Only 
the rapids and falls of the river murmured and roared, 
and in the great silence the voice of the waters seemed like 
the cry of the wild, the pleading of all nature for redemp- 
tion from the burden of men’s sins and crimes. 

When in early spring the waters roared most fiercely, 
as they rushed foaming through the wilderness, like beasts 
of prey frothing at the mouth, the whole region was filled 
with the angry cry of the torrents for miles around. Then 


7 

a sense of mute fear or dull anguish would sometimes grip 
these callous plodders ; — for an instant the women would 
drop their work and listen as if in dread of some unknown 
peril, while in those days the men bent more desperately 
to their task, or cheered their sinking spirits by consulting 
the pocket flask or the demijohn with greater frequency. 

In the springtime roar the oldest inhabitants thought 
they heard woodland voices foretelling some dire disaster, 
or the hoarse and hollow laughter of the evil-minded 
spirits of the primeval forest. People who dwelt near 
bogs and quagmires would often be alarmed by uncanny 
noises and frightful shrieks from points where the green 
surface offered no firm foothold but yielded treacherously 
to the tread of man or beast, and where many who had 
gone astray on foggy days or dark nights had disappeared 
never to be seen or heard of again. 

It was a God-forsaken parish, whose ill repute had 
spread far and wide throughout the province. People had 
many tales to tell of grewsome crimes committed in the 
depths of these forests, terrible acts of violence, man 
against man, which were never found out and never pun- 
ished. It seemed as though this particular locality was 
beyond the reach of the arm of the law. 

After the death of the old parson, it created not a little 
surprise when Dean Malm, a learned man and a powerful 
preacher, was named among the candidates at the coming 
pastoral election; for that able divine was held eligible 
to a much higher and more desirable place. Still he 


8 


applied, with the result that he became the unanimous 
choice of the parish. 

Of Dean Hans Malm sundry favorable reports had 
long been going the rounds of the neighborhood. It was 
reputed that his father was of an old peasant family and 
had with his own hands broken ground and worked up 
a farmstead in a barren and unpromising locality. The 
son of such a father would suit them best as pastor; so 
him they chose. And when afterward they saw him in 
the pulpit, a tall, imposing figure, they liked him from 
the very first. He impressed them. They wanted a real 
man in the pulpit, a man sprung from plain folk, yet 
risen far above them, a man with a serious mind, to whom 
they could look up with confident fellow feeling; and 
just such a man was Dean Malm. 

When he preached his probation sermon, there hap- 
pened something quite out of the ordinary. Every man 
and woman in the great church listened. They had to 
listen. He gripped them and held them bound with his 
fine voice and his plainspoken, homely eloquence; but his 
power over them was perhaps in greater measure the 
power of a man of men, who at once made them feel 
that he was one of them. He too had heard the voice 
of the solitude, the roar of the rapids; he too knew what 
life meant to the dwellers in the lone forest clearings; 
how long and dreary were their days of never ending toil. 
To ring in a holiday in the parish and attune the people’s 
minds to the voice of divine truth was his one wish. He 


would lighten the yoke, cheer the faint and burdened 
plodders, and turn their earthbound eyes towards the sun 
of life. 

They listened, breathless, spellbound, rapt in wonder. 
It seemed to their benighted minds like the first streak of 
a new dawn. 



II. 

The New Parson 

Shortly after Dean Malm’s election to this charge, the 
old tumble-down parsonage was torn down, and a new, 
stately manse was reared as a home for the new minister. 
True, he was one of them, that they maintained; yet 
he was their leader and bore himself with a dignity that 
called for a house somewhat better than the rest in order 
to be in full keeping. He was such a tall, grand man; 
so his doors must be a little higher. His face was light 
and his disposition cheerful; so his windows ought to be 
a litttle wider. And for a man with such a big heart 
the rooms should be made spacious and ample; so the 
new manse was built accordingly. Expecting much of 
him, the parishioners gave with a round hand towards his 
domestic comfort. 

When he moved into this new home, radiant with 
manly pride and happiness, and turned it over to his 
blushing young bride, there appeared to be and end of the 
deathlike quietude that had pervaded this secluded parish 


II 


from time out of mind. The people welcomed the twain 
as the accepted messengers of spring and sunshine, and 
there was no end of hurrahing for the happy pair, and 
other modes of rejoicing to make them welcome. More 
or less consciously, the whole parish sensed the coming 
of a new and better time. 

They were waiting with open and expectant hearts, and 
the parson and his wife met them more than halfway. 
The two had come to them with open hands and hearts, 
with a will to turn darkness into light, to make the 
wilderness to bloom like a garden. 

The young parson was a man of common stock, of 
popular leanings, but he might never have become a min- 
ister but for receiving through the young woman who 
afterwards became his wife his predestined call. He 
would doubtless have become a scientist, had not she given 
his mind a different turn by guiding him into the sunlit 
paths of true life, filling his soul with visions of the way 
of the Master and the will to follow in His steps. To 
do so was to take from' the Master’s hand and give to 
his fellow men — a perpetual receiving and distributing 
of heavenly gifts. It meant to penetrate to the very depths 
of the human mind, to study the true inwardness of 
the human heart, to take seriously the words of the poet, 
“The proper study of mankind is man”, and to dedicate 
his life to the service of mankind and of God. 

The two newcomers saw with clear eyes the true condi- 
tion of the parish. They understood the gloom, the 


12 


silence, the poverty of the people; they knew why the 
women had grown cold, and were lacking in sympathy 
and love for their near ones ; why the appetite of the men 
was debased and their thirst for strong drink year by year 
grew all the harder to appease. The drift was but natural, 
and there were no forces at work to stem the downward 
tide. 

The pastor and his young wife looked at their bright 
new home with smiling eyes, as if it had been the un- 
looked for gift of some miserly old uncle. They threw 
the doors wide ajar to their parishioners, observing with 
joy how well pleased their frequent visitors seemed to be. 
The parson could talk understandingly with all who 
came, now about their daily work or neighborly disagree- 
ments, now about their bodily ailments or mental afflic- 
tions. He was familiar with all the ins and outs of the 
life of the country folk, — that they quickly discovered. 
And when conversation along these lines lagged, he would 
tell them about his own father and his forbears, who had 
been farmers for generations back, great workers and 
masterly farmers at that. 

All this inspired confidence. If any other “gentleman” 
had acted as did the parson, the peasants would have met 
his confidential approaches with stubborn suspicion. But 
this man, who spoke so openly and with such manifest 
pride in his peasant origin, in him they had implicit faith. 

Then there was his kind, sweet young wife, who re- 
ceived the peasantry most heartily, chatted pleasantly with 


13 


them, and proved a most charming hostess to all comers. 
She was a sweet and refined little person of delicate mold 
and light, ethereal presence, and a cast of countenance so 
attractive and soulful that these children of the back- 
woods lingered long and often in abstract admiration of 
it. When they took her slender hand in greeting, they 
pressed it gently and with seeming hesitation, as if in fear 
of crushing it. 

There was something about this little woman’s very 
person suggestive of an irradiation of light and purity. 
Her eyes sparkled starlike, and every feature of her face 
reflected the emotions of a noble, tender heart. Now 
that she devoted herself wholly to the task of giving the 
people of her husband’s parish an impression of light and 
purity, she seemed in some mysterious way to give out light 
and exhale purity from her very person. 

Many a visitor returned home remembering little of 
what had been said, but bearing a most vivid recollection 
of a pair of eyes with a bright and tender twinkle in 
them, and of a subtle brightness that was somehow im- 
parted to them, cheering and illuminating their joyless 
selves. There was one thing more they could not forget. 
That was her music. She would often play for her guests 
and callers, and hearing her play was the chief charm 
about their visits; in fact, to many it seemed the supreme 
moment of their life. If she failed to convey in words 
her sympathy with some visitor who came to confide to 
the parson’s wife her joy or sorrow, she possessed the 


14 


great art of interpreting in tones her profoundest and 
tenderest feelings. With her music she exerted a resistless 
power over them. With that fairy wand she was able 
to waft them at will higher and higher, into supernal 
realms far above this groveling life and the cares that in- 
fest the day. Was that realm heaven? Thus many of 
them began to wonder. 

In those fanciful flights on the wings of harmony, they 
thought they saw endless space, heard celestial music, 
saw divine light, felt a foretaste of eternal rest and peace. 
Those who heard that music could never forget it. Its 
strains followed them to their homes; they rang through 
the solitude and silence of the forest; they sounded again 
when the winds picked the strings of the woodland harps ; 
they enlivened the dull monotony of the daily round, and 
quickened the sluggish pulse of the inner life. With such 
music ringing in the ears, it was not quite so easy to put 
the bottle to one’s mouth, or to curse and quarrel in the 
home. When they felt tempted to do that, they had a 
mysterious sensation as of tender eyes watching them or 
pure ears listening near. Was it angels sent to guard 
them, or was it the subtle influence of the fairylike little 
woman in the parsonage that hovered about? 

The burdens of life seemed to have been lightened. 
Father and mother began to talk things over together. 
On Sundays there was a pretty general attendance at 
church, making it the great day of the week. Formerly 
there had been no real holiday in the parish. People 


15 


began to gather at the church on Sundays for other pur- 
poses besides hearing Dean Malm preach ; there they met 
their friends, heard the latest news, and had a chance to 
shake hands with the parson and his wife. 

Which of the two was most admired by the people it 
were hard to tell. Both were highly esteemed, and the 
love and kindness they dispensed among their people came 
back to them in the form of gratitude, this they felt par- 
ticularly when surrounded by the throng of churchgoers 
on Sunday mornings. 

The spring that followed the advent of the new min- 
ister at the parish was one of unusual charm and delight. 
The song of the rapids ran in a different key; the sun 
beamed down over the region more benignly than ever 
before; the air of the forest was surcharged with sweet 
fragrance, and who had ever heard the birds in such a 
riot of song? 

Up to this time no one but the head of the family had 
ever been known to visit the parson ; but from now on 
there were frequent occasions for bringing some little gift 
or favor to the parsonage, and who but the goodwife her- 
self should make the presentation ? 

Thus is came about that the mistress of the house, too, 
had dealings with the manse, and established heretofore 
unknown relations with the parson and his wife, the latter 
now giving the lion’s share of attention to the good house- 
wives whose generosities were literally heaped upon her 
household. She talked sympathetically with them about 


i6 

their children, dwelling fondly upon the great blessing of 
motherhood and the high responsibility of right bringing 
up. Her warm words and intelligent outlook upon 
woman’s true mission in life aroused within them some- 
thing which had lain dormant before, that part of the 
motherly instinct known as kindness. 

This little gentlewoman of the manse had come like 
a mother to them all, and however generous their own 
material favors to her, she seemed to give them, out of 
the largeness of her heart, greater things in return. In 
consequence, her visitors would ofttimes depart with 
grateful tears lurking under the lashes and a distinct inner 
sensation that life, after all, was worth the living, and 
that the dismal days of lovelessness were past. Toil and 
cares and heartaches would always be theirs as a matter 
of course, but they could now see it all in a brighter light. 

Nevertheless, when she sat in the living room playing to 
herself there stole into her music at times a subtle some- 
thing which her husband was unable to understand, while 
still reacting to it with a shuddering sense of agony. Such 
chords he had never heard before, he thought. Granted 
that they were both overjoyed with expectation of a com- 
ing event, yet her strange, distraught harmonies seem to 
open a gap between them. 

“How now, little wifie? You are well, I trust,” he 
would then interrupt. 

“Oh — indeed, Hans, I am too happy for words”, 
came the half-whispered reply, while she fondly inclined 


17 


her slightly flushed cheek to his shoulder and her tender 
eyes avoided his. 

“May I not look at you, then?” he demanded as he 
gently turned her face upward and looked squarely into 
her eyes. There he saw reflected a world of purity and 
bliss, and back of it all an ominous expression, the mean- 
ing of which was strange to him. 


d> 



III. 

Life for Life 

Ascension Day had come — a day of joy in all nature, 
when buds were bursting into blossom, the sap was rising 
and stirring vegetation to new life, and the spring birds 
were voicing the joy of life in matutinal song. The great 
church was thronged with parishioners come to worship, 
a thing which by now had become a habit with them. 
Parson Malm, alert with a secret expectation, put more 
heart and hope into his preaching than ever before, inspired 
in no small part by the radiant face of his wife before him. 
At times he seemed to forget all those around him and ad- 
dress his words to her alone. 

As they walked across the church lawn, Dean Malm 
heard an echo of his sermon repeated behind him. “And 
His face did shine as the sun, and his garments became 
white as the light.” As he looked into his wife’s face, he 
was prompted to apply the words to her, such was the 
exultation that radiated from her countenance. A look 


19 

of dismay followed soon after, and the parson, who un- 
derstood, would have given much at that moment to have 
his wife at home. 

It was but a little way to the parsonage, ordinarily; 
to-day the distance seemed endless. His little wife bore 
up bravely and had a greeting and a cheerful word for all 
who spoke, but at the front steps her strength gave out. 

“Hans, you will carry me in, won’t you?” she begged; 
“I can’t walk another step”. 

He turned and looked at her face again. The radiance 
was now gone; all that remained was agonized pallor. — 

During the next few days the news went the rounds of 
the parish that there were no longer two at the parsonage 
— there were four, the new arrivals being two little 
cherubs, a boy and a girl, both with the starlike eyes of 
their mother. 

Man and wife about the parish would exchange mys- 
terious smiles as they talked over the good news. The 
mothers would look tenderly at their last-born, with a 
feeling akin to that of the happy young mother in the 
parsonage. They would smile inwardly in recalling all 
her kind words and her all-embracing love. Why, this 
little woman had been a mother long ere this, a mother to 
all of these wayward children of the backwoods! 

But now she had been blessed with children of her own 
flesh and blood, doubly blessed. And why not doubly? 
For she had spoken to them more fervently than anyone 
else about this very thing — the blessedness of parenthood 


20 


and true home life. In many a home the mothers’ eyes 
were dimmed with tears of solicitude for the dear little 
woman, every thought of whom they were wont to supple- 
ment with an informal prayer — “God bless her”. 

It was a day of rejoicing for the entire parish when the 
glad news spread from the parsonage. But it was to be 
followed by days of grief and sad disappointment, for 
next came a message that the mother’s benign eyes were 
closed, — her kind heart was stilled in death. On the 
day when that message came, no one did a hand’s turn of 
work, not a plow was put in the ground, not an ax was 
swung, — all were steeped in gloom. People spoke in a 
hushed voice, if speak they must; beyond that the whole 
parish was wrapped in a great, mysterious silence. No 
one talked about these events; all seemed to be pondering 
them in their own minds. The men would stand at the 
windows as if expecting word that the message of death 
was not true. The women tended their little ones with 
the same tenderness they felt for the infants of that young 
mother who had loved them so; who had put into their 
simple lives that which could not be spoken, nor assayed, 
nor yet requited. 

But the old folk who sat in the ingle nooks, the know- 
ing ones who understood more than the younger genera- 
tion, claimed to hear the mocking laughter of the Lady 
of the Woods and to perceive mystic sounds from the 
moors foreboding evil. There had been no mistake, — 
the parson’s wife was dead. It was as if the sun in the 


21 


heavens had suddenly grown dark, or the bounteous 
promises of spring had been undone by a killing frost. 

It was a remarkable procession that followed the par- 
son’s wife to the grave. First came the parson himself, 
bowed, yet tall, his serious face more stern and gloomy 
than ever before. Then followed relatives of the deceased, 
fine folks from the city, in deep mourning apparel and 
with floods of tears. After them, the whole congregation 
in mourning, men, women, and children, people from the 
secluded crofts in the forest clearings, and from the little 
huts around the moors, many of them being without holi- 
day clothes, yet anxious to come and show deference to 
her who had passed from them, to see her casket, and to 
mourn beside her grave. 

There was silence, there was grief which found no 
voice, profound beyond comprehension. A harp was 
shattered whose tones had set the mute strings of many 
another harp in sympathetic vibration. These had begun 
to sound in one grand accord, ever louder and stronger, 
when the leading instrument was so suddenly hushed. Its 
chords stilled forever, all music seemed to have died out 
of the world. 

In the house of mourning all spoke in a half whisper as 
if in fear of waking one who sleeps. And when Miss 
Rosa came to take charge of the house, the rule was 
established as a matter of good form that thenceforward 
none but subdued voices should be heard in the rooms 
which had heretofore resounded with laughter and music. 


22 


The parson himself locked his wife’s piano; no one 
should ever be permitted to use it after her. 

With her the music had gone out of his life ; there was 
now nothing left to him but stern duty, work, and soli- 
tude. He sat alone in his study, alone with his memories. 
No one disturbed him needlessly ; with a reverence mingled 
with timidity the people looked up to this lonely man, so 
prematurely turning gray. He fought hard to seem the 
same as before, but those who came to him saw the great 
void, and hesitated to come again. 

Thus sat Dean Malm alone with his heart’s grief, 
reviewing his past life again and again, reveling in self- 
contemplation, and growing blind to the outer world as 
he kept peering into his own inwardness. Ever and anon 
his thoughts reverted to her who had left him a lone and 
grief-stricken man. Her words had been so few to the 
last, as she had lain on her bed pale and white, with eyes 
closed. When spoken to, she had opened her eyes and 
looked into his with infinite depth and tenderness, but 
with a far-away expression, as if she saw something be- 
yond him, an all-absorbing vision which caused his person 
to vanish from her sight. 

“Hans”, she had whispered to him once, “I see the 
springtime coming, — spring and sunshine for you and 
all those in your charge here. Spring is coming”, she 
repeated with assurance, — “even though belated.” 

“Abide with me, dear heart; then there is spring and 
sunshine,” he entreated. 


23 

A shadow flitted across her countenance, and she lay a 
long while silent. Then her features lit up with a sublime 

light. Mlill 

“Hans, my own,” she faltered, arid it was with some 
difficulty he caught her words, “there has been something 
in my life, — in our life — which has borne me up, a' 
great, bright, beautiful something; a sweet harmony 
seemed to surround me at all times. There is no name 
for it, — words fail me to describe it, it is so pure, so 
sacred. In music alone I was at all able to interpret it. 
Dearest, when you shall have learnt to know that great 
thing, then springtime shall have come into your life.” 

He studied and pondered her words, but their meaning 
remained hidden. Unable to find a solution, he abandoned 
contemplation and threw himself into the parish work 
with full energy. But he made no headway. It was like 
beating with bare fists upon copper gates locked against 
him. While all had been bright and pleasant in his 
home, he had succeeded without great effort, as though 
some one had gone before him and made a way. Now all 
doors seemed closed to him. 

He seized upon study and research as a last recourse 
against despair. 



IV. 

After Twenty Years 

The only two-story house in the parish was the par- 
sonage. The homes in the district were generally poorly 
built ; a low dwelling house, a straw-thatched, sway-backed 
barn, and one or two rickety little outhouses, that was all. 
No need of expertness to see that the soil was being but 
poorly tilled, yielding little, or their would have been 
signs of thrift and prosperity at least in places. Nor was 
it necessary to interview the parishioners to find out that 
their inner life was in keeping with this outward decay. 
A look at the parish schoolhouse was enough, for it was 
the poorest structure for miles around, leaning on props 
like a cripple on his crutches, sagging, leaky, and sadly out 
of repair. And if you made an inspection of the ancient 
church, with its walls covered with decades of dust, where 
they were not denuded in patches of fallen plastering, and 
the interior sparsely lit up by the dim, thick-glazed, clois- 
tral windows, you no longer wondered at what you had 


25 

seen about the parish. All things were in full keeping. 
Not even the fact that but one grave in the cemetery was 
being well kept gave cause for wonder. Any . stranger 
would have surmised that some one from the parsonage 
slept there. 

And if you approached that grave and read the inscrip- 
tion on the stone, you found that it was the resting place 
of the parson’s wife. She had now slept there for twenty 
years, and among all these dead hers was the only name 
preserved for posterity. 

It was with a sense of oppression one walked about in 
this city of unknown dead. These people, who permitted 
the grass to grow tall on the graves of their departed 
ones, who gave not so much as a flower in tribute to those 
claimed by death, even at a time when all nature was 
abloom, — what sort of people could they be? And fur- 
thermore, what manner of man was Dean Malm, their 
leader and spiritual adviser? 

The huge white manse loomed bright but solitary in 
its squalid surroundings. A stranger could not but stop 
and wonder why a parish which so sadly neglected its 
sanctuary and which allowed the schoolhouse to go to ruin, 
should have erected so stately a home for its pastor. The 
explanation must be found in the man who dwelt in those 
spacious rooms. 

From the village street the great manse looked deserted 
and forbidding, the doors all closed, the shades drawn, 
and no sound of human voice to be heard. 


26 


But anyone who had the courage to approach the for- 
bidding facade, step inside the gate, and follow the grav- 
eled walk across the lawn, pass the clear, well-kept mac- 
adamized space in front of the house, and mount the high 
steps to the front door would be met there and shown 
through the vestibule into a cozy anteroom by a prim little 
woman who in a subdued voice announced that the parson 
would be found in the adjoining study. Meanwhile her 
eyes would scrutinize the visitor from head to foot, and 
woe unto him who in wet weather had failed to wipe his 
footwear clean on the door mat or who attempted to walk 
in to the parson without removing his overcoat. 

The parishioners were all well aware of the little house- 
keeper’s unrelenting watchfulness, and they tried as best 
they could to meet her minutest requirements. No one 
made any attempt to see the parson without first having 
donned his Sunday best, and the visitors tried with varying 
success to put on an urbane air and walk with the same 
genteel noiselessness as the hostess when approaching the 
parson’s door. They all knew of these meticulous require- 
ments and hampering formalities, — all but the parson 
himself. Had he known, he would doubtless have put an 
end to Miss Rosa’s finical code of manners, for her system 
was admirably designed to widen the chasm which had 
opened between the shepherd and his flock in the course 
of years. As it was, no one sought the parson, save in 
extreme need. 

Dean Malm and his daughter Harriet devoted them- 


27 


selves almost entirely to their books. When at the death 
of his wife the parson closed the door between himself and 
the outer world, and steeped himself in study, then the 
great chasm began to form between pastor and people. 
Those who at first had looked up to the stricken man with 
reverential sympathy became estranged by his aloofness 
and soon grew cold and indifferent. But his studies had 
been unable to satisfy his inner wants. In the course of 
years the children, Axel and Harriet, had grown up. He 
had personally attended to their early education by giving 
them their primary schooling in the home. In his daughter 
alone he discovered his own youthful enthusiasm for the 
great poets, his interest in history, and his thirst for 
general knowledge. 

So the parson and his daughter spent their days and 
evenings almost exclusively in the library, year after year, 
oblivious of their surroundings and forgetful of life’s du- 
ties. Miss Rosa alone had an eye to the inconsistency of 
this mode of life for a man placed in spiritual charge of a 
congregation. True, she was disposed to concede to her 
brother-in-law an intellectual plane higher than her own, 
but as for Harriet, that was another matter. 

Rosa was an elder sister of the deceased, and her posi- 
tion as her successor in the management of the big house 
and guide and instructor of the two motherless children 
she had taken very seriously. 

Her duties as housekeeper she performed most efficient- 
ly, but her method of training children proved a lamenta- 


28 


ble failure. Its first principle seemed to be that they must 
always be quiet. A solemn silence must reign in the 
home, particularly in the staid and dignified home of a 
minister of the gospel, that was one of her rules of pro- 
priety. On this point Harriet early yielded to her, but 
Axel was not to be so easily subdued. His was a rollick- 
ing boyish desposition; he would talk in a loud voice, 
despite all Rosa’s reprimands, and against his racing 
through the house and his boisterous play her repressive 
measures had been of little avail. He had been the one 
disturbing element in the house for years, and when he 
was sent away to school in the city, it gave the smug little 
lady of the house a most welcome relief. 

When Harriet grew older, however, Miss Rosa was far 
from pleased with her. She had grown old in kitchen and 
pantry, and from her domestic point of view the first and 
most essential of all womanly accomplishments was the 
art of cooking. Doubtful from the outset as to Harriet’s 
studies, she grew more irritable as the study hours of the 
little girl grew more numerous, and when the daughter 
ultimately spent nearly all her time among her father’s 
books the opinionated Miss Rosa washed her hands. Her 
brother-in-law would have to bear the entire responsibility 
for such a mode of education for a young lady. 

Dean Malm fretted under the housekeeper’s criticism 
of his methods, yet he could find nothing amiss in his 
daughter’s predilection for study. To him her time was 
far better spent with the master works of great authors 


29 


than with all the pots and pans of a hundred kitchens ; but 
when one day he carelessly dropped a hint to this effect, 
Miss Rosa had her answer ready. 

“That’s all very well for a boy, but in case of a girl it 
is altogether different.” 

The Dean found no reply. It had not occurred to him 
that studies ought to be proscribed in a girl’s case. His 
daughter was fond of books ; that had settled the matter. 

“She will never marry, that’s certain,” pursued Miss 
Rosa in a wrought up tone, “for what chance of marriage 
has a girl who can’t cook?” 

There was a sharp glint in the parson’s eye, and he was 
about to parry with a sarcasm the indignity to his 
daughter, but he thought better of it. 

“We shall see,” he said merely. Then he added, 
“However, Harriet may help you when needed.” 

Miss Rosa shrugged her spare shoulders in disdain. 
“Harriet, then, is to spend part of her time in the study 
and part in the kitchen. Learned as you are, you don’t 
know your own child. That girl will never divide her 
interests.” 

She seemed to grow taller as she pronounced these 
words, each with a stress and a pause. When she saw 
how they went home to her brother-in-law, she felt still 
more exalted, and fearful lest the parson should get the 
better of her when he spoke, she swept grandly out of the 
room, feeling that this was one of the supreme moments 
in her life. 


30 


“She will never divide her interest.” That was true. 


So also it was only too true that he did not know his own 


child. He pondered for a while on his daughter’s prob- 
able lot in life, then gave up the problem. For why 
trouble one’s mind about insoluble problems? 

The words about Harriet’s singleness of purpose rang 
in his ears for some time. Were they a prophecy of what 
was to be? He looked closely into her eyes every day as 
if to ascertain that no new emotion or purpose had entered 
her heart, and he found no hint or trace. For Rosa was 
right on one point : he did not know his own child. 







V. 

Harriet 

As the years passed, Harriet Malm was all the more 
pained at the conviction that her father had not found his 
proper field of activity. It was a torture to her to sit in 
the empty church Sunday after Sunday, listening to his 
masterful sermons and feeling that they were wasted on 
these ignorant folk, while they would have been highly 
appreciated by more intelligent church audiences. Some- 
times she wished him more stern and less genteel, more 
outspoken and less tolerant, for there was need of plain 
and forceful speech here in order that the truth should be 
heard and heeded. 

Although she loved her native scenes with all her heart, 
the very air oppressed her when in her lonely walks and 
excursions in the neighborhood she saw the tumble-down 
dwellings, the neglected fences, the exhausted fields. 
There was lack of life and energy in these parts; enter- 
prise was dead and all innovations were met with stubborn 
opposition. 


32 


She would always return home with a set determina- 
tion to leave the narrow confines of home for that great 
wide, interesting world which her brother so enthusiasti- 
cally described. The time had come for her to do some- 
thing decisive. Marriage she had not thought of; she 
ignored all plans in that direction with manifest indif- 
ference. The scholarly young lady had formed her own 
opinion in all matters, that is, all save matrimony, which 
had not yet entered her mind. 

One day as she sat in her favorite spot at the top of the 
high hill that commanded a view of all the surrounding 
country, sentiment got the better of her, and she penned 
these lines, the only stanza she ever indited : 

Up and away on the tempest’s wings, 

Far as the north winds go; 

Out and away from the little things ; 

Through my life let the fresh breeze blow! 

Ah, how my bosom is burning 
With a fire quenchless, undying! 

My heart is forever yearning, 

Willing ears turning 

To the voice of life that is crying: 

Come, come away 

The thought was incomplete, and she cudgeled her 
brains for a logical finish, but it would not come. At a 
later day, when she did know what the conclusion was, 
the new, great experiences of life proved too beautiful, too 
deep for utterance, so she never completed the lines. 


* * * 



“Mother” said he gently, “do you remember the time 
when I was just a little boy?” Page 129. 





33 

One bitter morning in February Dean Malm’s elegant 
sleigh and span of fine black roadsters pulled up to the 
front portico. The fiery, well-groomed animals snorted, 
champed their bits, stamped and pawed the glistening 
snow, and the breath issued from their distended nostrils 
in dense clouds. The old coachman had all he could do 
to hold them back while he was unclasping the apron and 
arranging the laprobes. 

Harriet was making ready for a drive to the city in 
the intense cold, despite Miss Rosa’s vigorous protests. 
What mattered the cold, — her young blood was warm? 
Looking out of the window where the light of the low 
winter sun fell into the room, her nerves fairly tingled 
in anticipation of the pleasure of a swift drive across the 
snowy expanse. 

The dean had put on his big, shaggy fur coat to escort 
her to the sleigh, and just as she was about to step into 
it, Harriet with a quick impulse turned and gave her 
father an impetuous embrace. Without knowing why this 
sudden show of affection, she was slightly abashed before 
her father’s fond look as well as the curious glance of old 
Mats the coachman as she hopped lightly into the back 
seat, and off they dashed. 

All that day Harriet was constantly in her father’s 
thoughts. He had come to a full realization of what she 
meant to him. True, she was not all that her mother had 
been, the light and life and power and joy of his life. But 
she was the boon companion, the bosom friend, the intel- 


Reclaimed. 2 . 


34 


ligent comrade who could share his excursions into the 
realms of poesy. He felt now that she was more to him 
than ever before. Was it because she had grown mature 
and begun to live more intensively, while he himself was 
on the decline? 

A thousand thoughts of his domestic life filed through 
his brains in unbroken succession during the dragging 
hours of that long day, as he paced the floor of his study 
with clockwork regularity. 

Time and again he sought to shake off his moodiness 
by picturing to himself the figure of the girl as she min- 
gled with the throngs in the city that day. Not without 
pride did he recall how fine and fresh and charming she 
looked that morning in her blue fox coat and bright scarf, 
her face glowing and her eyes sparkling under the rim of 
a jaunty fur hood. He felt sure that in the whole city 
there was no one like her. For she was the true daughter 
of a mother who had been the belle of her home town, her 
beauty undisputed and supreme. 

He walked over to where his wife’s portrait hung on 
the wall, the radiant eyes of the picture beaming lifelike 
upon him. 

“Why, dear heart, did you leave me?” The words he 
spoke seemed to issue from a deep cavern. What a con- 
trast! She, dead, yet so beaming and lifelike; he, alive, 
yet how dead ! As he stood gazing at the picture, the days 
they had shared with one another seemed to him the only 
part of his life worthy of the name. The years that fol- 


35 


lowed had been nothing but an aching void to his heart, 
a bad dream of a stupendous task never accomplished. 

Again there came to his memory those mysterious words 
of hers, which he could never understand, “I see the spring- 
time coming, — spring and sunshine for you and all those 
in your charge here. Spring is coming, sure, though 
tardy.” 

He walked over to his writing desk and dropped into 
his armchair with his face hidden in his hands. His keen- 
est sorrow now was not the loss of his wife — time had 
mollified that — , but the fact that spring had not come — 
the spiritual springtime predicted by his sainted wife. 
Nevertheless, at the bottom of his heart there had always 
been, and there was still, a faint hope that whispered, 
“Spring will surely come.” 

Harriet returned late at night, and when the dean ap- 
peared at breakfast next morning he did not expect her 
to join him. He found her, however, already giving an 
account of her purchases to Miss Rosa. 

“Up so early, my dear,” he greeted her, “and how did 
you stand the trip?” 

“Let your eyes be the judges, papa,” she replied smiling. 
“I need an outing like that now and then to set my blood 
in circulation and to blow the dust and cobwebs from my 
brains.” 

“Oh, well,” interposed Miss Rosa, “your blood is rush- 
ing fast enough, to my way of thinking, and your brains 


36 

are working full time. One could only wish your hands 
were half as busy.” 

Being in the best of humor, the girl took her aunt’s 
criticism good-naturedly. 

“Auntie,” she replied, “what can I do to please you? 
Yesterday I gave my brains a rest while I had my hands 
full of shopping, still you did all in your power to keep 
me from it.” 

“Because I did not think it sensible for a young lady 
to start out for town at the risk of freezing to death,” 
Miss Rosa retorted. “In my younger days everybody 
stayed indoors when the weather was twenty below.” 

She gave the dean a look as if in appeal to his corrobo- 
ration, but found no support. 

“We must remember that my daughter has inherited a 
robust constitution from my side of the family,” he ex- 
plained. “Up north we never paid much attention to 
the thermometer, and least of all in winter. If so, we 
would have had to huddle around the fireplace most of 
the time. That might do for genteel folks, but not for 
people of good old hardened peasant stock.” 

Miss Rosa was silenced. She could not bear to hear her 
brother-in-law thus openly make invidious comparisons 
between her family and his own. She sat stiff and formal 
in her black satin dress, feeling profoundly grateful that 
her father had held the office of district judge and that 
it had been her favored lot to live most of her time in the 
city, among people of good breeding. 



VI. 

“What Think You of Christ?” 

Harriet broke the silence. 

“Papa, I have so many things to talk over with you,” 
she said, as the two withdrew to the study and took their 
customary places. 

“Did you miss me yesterday?” she inquired archly. 

“Well, yes, maybe the least bit,” the dean returned, 
affecting indifference. 

She gave him a searching look, as if to sound the depth 
of his meaning. 

“I missed you very much ” she said slowly and with 
feeling, then continued more lightly, “Oh, papa, one must 
get away from home at times in order to appreciate to the 
full all that it implies. For some time I have been longing 
for something, I know not what. I thought it was the 
outer world so enchantingly described by my brother Axel, 
— the excitement of city life. But yesterday taught me 
that I could not endure to live in town. It is so noisy, 


38 

so crowded, so stuffy and confining. Now this great 
silence rings like beautiful music in my ears. I hear voices 
issue from my own heart, and these dear old rooms are 
resonant with harmony and song.” 

“And yet the piano has been locked these twenty years,” 
said her father by way of concealing his own emotion. 

She paid no attention to his remark. 

“But it was you that I missed most of all, father,” she 
proceeded solemnly. Maybe the city would seem a better 
place if you had been there. The people I met were so 
different from — from you. In driving home late last 
night in the starlight I had plenty of time for reflection. 
Then it struck me that all the townspeople whom I had 
met were but so many actors in a big play with the whole 
city for a stage. Has it ever appeared that way to you?” 

The parson withheld his answer while harking back to 
yesterday’s retrospect. 

“Yes, my child, at times,” he said sadly. 

“I thought so,” she nodded understandingly. “Of 
course the idea is not new or original at all. On the way 
home last night I thought of the great Caesar Augustus 
of Rome who after a long life, which had yielded all that 
he could desire, on his deathbed said to those around him, 
‘Applaud, my friends; the play is ended.’ Before my 
mind’s eye there passed the whole drama of life prior to 
the time of the great Augustus ; I thought of all the ancient 
races which had had ‘their exits and their entrances,’ com- 
ing on the stage to play their part and then stepping off 


39 


the boards of the world scene. They each in turn came 
out of the unknown, became great and powerful, and held 
the center of the stage for a short time, only to disappear 
when their given role had been enacted. Perhaps Augus- 
tus was thinking of all these theatrical entrances and exits. 
Perhaps he saw how his own mighty nation was already 
nearing the close of its part in the world drama and near- 
ing its decline and fall. Shakespeare’s famous lines — 
‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women 
merely players’ — ran through my mind as I thought of 
this wide and universal theater of life and, looking up to 
the stars, I wondered how these human tragedies of ours 
look from their high plane. But the stars had no answer. 
They looked mutely down on the little human mite that 
had almost presumed to ask them. 

“While I was steeped in contemplation the scene shifted 
from the death of Augustus to that of another Man who 
lived about the same time. I heard the agonized cry in 
His dying moment — ‘It is finished.’ Father, we two 
have talked of many things, but never of this. Tell me 
now, what is your opinion of the Master of Nazareth?” 

The dean was shocked at his daughter’s unexpected 
question. All that she had said before was familiar to 
him but this one question brought up a matter that the 
old parson was quite unprepared to discuss. 

“You certainly know my position,” he said evasively. 

Although perceiving that he was loath to touch upon 
this subject she pressed her point, anxious to know what 


40 


her father really thought of that Man of men who had 
been in her mind almost all the way home. 

“What was ‘finished’?” she inquired in order to draw 
him out. 

“There are various interpretations of that, my dear; 
I think it merely referred to His suffering. Besides, we 
have no certain evidence that those were His words. As 
for me, I hold that we must look upon Jesus of Nazareth 
broadly as a character of absolute purity, a wise teacher, 
the friend of mankind, and so forth.” 

“You hold, then, that He was a mere man?” 

“He was the Ideal Man.” 

“But not the Son of God?” 

Dean Malm shrugged his broad shoulders. 

“Paul tells us that ‘in Him we live, and move, and have 
our being,’ and then quotes the Greek poets to the effect 
that ‘we are also His offspring.’ In that sense He was 
the Son of God, and I will add that no man was ever 
in a deeper sense the Son of God.” 

“But how do you explain the great difference between 
Him and His fellow men?” Harriet pursued. 

“That is explained by what I have just said. He was 
a son of God in the complete sense. All men then as now 
sought their own selfish ends; all circled about self as the 
center of interest. He followed a different path. He was 
literally eccentric to the last degree, and that is why some 
said of Him that He was demented.” 


4i 


But Harriet was not satisfied with her father’s philo- 
sophical explanation. 

“On what ground, then, did He attain such overwhelm- 
ing influence over other men?” 

“He appeared at a very critical time. Your quotation 
from Augustus proves it. The ruler of well-nigh all the 
world, the lord of millions of men, who saw his empire 
flourish in every way and under whose protection com- 
merce and industry, art and science thrived, — not even 
he was able to stay the internal decadence ; and during his 
reign the invincible Roman armies were defeated by a 
more powerful race. If we view conditions in the Holy 
Land at this period we will . . . . ” 

sfe 



VII. 

Moor Farm Misery 

Dean Malm was interrupted by Miss Rosa’s usual dis- 
creet knock at the study door. It opened, and a short, 
square-built young man stepped in. Without saying a 
word, he put his hand to his cap as if to doff it, but only 
to pull it farther down over his forehead. 

“How are you, my friend?” the parson greeted him by 
way of drawing the silent visitor out. “You have come 
a long way this morning?” 

The man at the door had no words. He apparently 
had to thaw out in the warmth of the room before he was 
able to tell his errand. 

“Won’t you please be seated?” pursued the parson in 
a friendly tone. 

But the young man held his place just inside the door, 
standing mute and motionless for fully a minute. Ulti- 
mately he got ready to speak. 

“Pa is dead.” He delivered his sad message in some- 
thing like a growl. 


43 


There might have been a good deal to say on this occa- 
sion. The parson well knew what wretchedness prevailed 
in the distant corner of the parish whence this young man 
came. The place where he lived was surrounded by 
marshes and could scarcely be reached in summer time 
except on foot. The parson had made a visit there but 
once, and that was in winter, when he drove mile upon 
mile across frozen bogs and marshlands. The young man 
was of a piece with the environment where he had grown 
up. The trees and shrubs that lined the moors and 
morasses were dwarfed and thickset like himself, and like 
him the entire country round about was gloomy, dismal, 
and forbidding. 

Dean Malm made no remarks. He noted down the 
usual data in the parish record, then turned to inquire: 

“When will the funeral take place?” 

His tone was abrupt and matter-of-fact, for every re- 
minder of the misery prevailing in the parish seemed to 
touch a sore spot within him. The mental pain did not 
serve to soften his voice. 

“Well, ma is sick, so we thought. ...” 

The young man did not finish. Thinking his meaning 
fairly plain, he did not care to waste words. 

But the parson failed to understand. 

“Well, young man, speak out. What did you think?” 

He made his voice a shade milder as he pictured to him- 
self the utter hopelessness of the situation out there on the 
desolate moor farm. The father dead, the mother ill, the 


44 


sons out in the lumber camps all day long, and a young 
girl alone with the dead and the dying at home. He had 
noticed in the record that there was a young daughter in 
the family, and it was mainly pity for her that softened 
his tone as he spoke. 

“We thought we’d better wait, and then bury them 
both at the same time,” the messenger from the stricken 
home finally explained. 

The speaker seemed surprised at this unaccustomed flow 
of words from his own lips and as if frightened by their 
grim candor he quickly touched his cap again, opened the 
door and, closing it behind him with a bang, strode noisily 
through the big vestibule and disappeared. 

For a moment father and daughter looked at one an- 
other in amazement at the shocking heartlessness and in- 
humanity betrayed by the young man’s admission. 

“Run, Harriet, — call him back; I’ll. ...” 

The dean’s face flushed with righteous wrath as he 
spoke. He instantly resolved to give the impious young 
peasant a sharp lecture on his duties to God, to his pastor, 
and to his old parents. 

His anger, however, quickly subsided, and when the 
girl returned with the explanation that the visitor went 
his way paying no attention to her calls, the parson real- 
ized that words of reprimand would have been wasted on 
this fellow. 

As soon as practicable, Dean Malm drove out to the 
moor farm, accompanied by one of the deacons of the 


45 


church. What he there saw and heard he never told 
Harriet in detail. All that she learnt was that the old 
man was buried the following Sunday, there being but 
one mourner present, his daughter, a young girl, Harriet’s 
junior by several years. 

Along in the spring the mother also passed away. When 
he learnt of this, the parson decided off hand to take the 
young girl to the parsonage to stay. Harriet said nothing 
about the arrangement. Having witnessed the depravity 
of the brother, she had taken an interest in the girl, whose 
tender childish face bespoke a kindlier nature. 

But Miss Rosa flew into a towering rage when in- 
formed of the dean’s decision, made without her advice. 
Her opposition notwithstanding, May Woods, the or- 
phaned farmer girl, moved into the parsonage. 

There she was at once placed under Harriet’s tutorship, 
and the parsonage became the scene of more intensive 
application to study than ever before. Another delver 
into learned lore was added, and besides, the parson and 
his daughter had put renewed vigor into their searching 
of the Scriptures after their conversation about Him of 
whom these bear witness. 



VIII. 

A Vacation Visitor 

One day Axel came home on a visit, bringing with him 
his friend and college chum, Henry Falconer, a civil en- 
gineer. This young man was not entirely a stranger in the 
parsonage, Axel having often spoken of him in his letters. 

“We two are like soul and body,” Axel jocularly ex- 
plained to his father upon introducing his friend, adding, 
“ — and Henry is the body.” This was his mode of con- 
veying an idea of the close comradeship between them. 

“You two should be on your guard,” he continued 
broadly as Harriet and Henry shook hands. “You may 
have found your match,” he added ambiguously. 

Harriet looked the young man over with curious scru- 
tiny. She rather liked his easy bearing, and her heart was 
not entirely neutral the moment she extended her hand 
in welcome. The young engineer pressed it with rather 
too firm a grip, the hard, rough palm betraying readiness 
and capacity for even physical labor. 

Harriet smiled secretly at her brother’s remark, the 


47 


point of which she instantly perceived, for this young man 
was so far removed from her ideal of a life companion 
as to seem almost the reverse of it. 

Short of stature as he was, young Falconer cut a very 
slight figure beside the tall and portly parson; nor did he 
measure up to the more than average proportions of the 
son. But there was compensation for lack of stature in 
a physique that bespoke energy and will power; and the 
young man’s face was lit up by a genial pair of eyes that 
seemed to penetrate deep and far. 

The two young men brought with them a whiff of air 
from the great world beyond the confines of the parish 
in the wilderness. Axel had many incidents to relate, and 
in all his little adventures his friend Henry played a part. 

“I trust your friend will not find his stay in our quiet 
corner too tedious after all that,” said the parson with 
a look at the young engineer, when Axel had finished a 
series of personal narratives. 

“By no means, father. He is as fond of the country as 
I am of the city,” Axel assured his father, with an ap- 
pealing glance at his companion. 

“Yes, I freely admit that I am,” said Henry Falconer. 
“The country is my choice, and there I expect to locate 
some day.” 

The dean eyed him for an instant. 

“Think twice before you do, my young friend. It might 
turn out to be the funeral of your ambition in life, he 
warned. 


48 

There was something in the parson’s voice that made 
both Axel and Harriet very much depressed. But the 
stranger buoyed them up with his more cheerful point of 
view. 

“Oh, no, my dear parson, I cannot believe that. It is 
very much easier to bury oneself in a big city, that is to 
say, if one lacks ability and falls short in the sharp com- 
petition there. Then one has to be content with being 
a mere molecule in the great mass, or at best a cog in the 
machinery of commerce. But to make the most of things, 
to live the life, not merely act a part, one has to go to the 
country.” 

Axel laughed noisily. His aunt’s suppressive measures 
were long since forgotten, and he was not accustomed to 
put his risible powers under restraint. 

“Henry is like the immortal Caesar,” he broke forth. 
“He’d rather be first in a village than second in Rome. 
He doubts his ability to become a head higher than all 
the people in Stockholm, so he prefers to rule the roost 
in some country district.” 

The young engineer sought in vain to register a protest. 

“Never mind, old boy,” young Malm interposed, “I 
have spoken, and you know it is so. Now, give us a tune.” 

The fact was that the parson had at length brought 
himself to unlock the old piano. He felt unwarranted 
in longer keeping from the young people the enjoyment 
of music tabooed in the house for so many years. 

Henry Falconer went over to the instrument and seated 


49 


himself on the swivel stool. For some moments he sat 
pondering, as if in mental search of a suitable selection. 
A thundering chord and a deft run was suddenly heard. 
It was a man’s playing, — a man of forceful fancy and 
clear vision, who not only was conscious of a creative 
genius within but who felt the power to interpret his con- 
ception upon the keyboard. 

What he played Harriet did not know. That he was 
somewhat of an artist she at once realized, and the pres- 
ence of just such a personality as his began to impart a 
peculiar satisfaction to her. A strain of her own longing 
for other scenes, new experiences, greater tasks in life, she 
seemed to recognize in his skillful improvizations. Just 
as this young man at that moment did not know whether 
he would like to be Caesar, whether in Rome or the 
provinces, so Harriet knew not what her station was to 
be, — only this she knew, that fill a place she must, 
whether high or low, for she was young, she was strong. 




IX. 

On the Joy of Being Alive 

The days that now followed were rich in pleasure and 
sunshine. Axel was an adept at entertaining and in pro- 
viding social pastimes. The dean meanwhile withdrew 
to his study, for the mirth and merrymaking of the young 
people did not now quite tally with his temperament. 

He would probably have borne it better, but for the 
fact that Axel in the last few years had grown to a strik- 
ing resemblance of his mother. That gave to the father’s 
mind a retrospective trend, and he lived mostly among his 
memories. Axel was blond and smiling, like his mother; 
Harriet darker and of a more sober temperament. His 
eyes beamed ever so much more brightly than those in the 
picture on the study wall; his open-heartedness, like his 
mother’s, was the key that opened to him the hearts of 
others. 

The three young people fared far and wide through the 
surrounding country, — they must see all there was to see 
of picturesque beauty and grandeur of natural scenery. 


5i 

Axel spoke to every one they met, never so happy as 
when he succeeded in engaging some one of these quiet, 
plodding, buttoned up parishioners in conversation. This 
brought Harriet surprise upon surprise, firmly convinced 
as she was that these people had neither words nor thoughts 
over and above the daily modicum. 

Well, if that isn’t the son of the parson’s wife,” ejacu- 
lated one old man at the poorhouse, rudely ignoring the 
paternal origin of his young friend. “I knew her all right, 
God rest her soul.” 

“Your memory is good, my dear old friend,” said Axel. 
“And this is my sister Harriet and my friend Henry 
Falconer.” 

The old man looked keenly at them both. 

“This young man I never met, but I see he’s making 
the parson’s daughter company,” he sized up the situation. 

Axel smiled at the old man’s way of drawing distinc- 
tions by calling him “the son of the parson’s wife,” while 
Harriet was referred to as “the parson’s daughter.” See- 
ing merely the humorous side, Axel was thoughtless 
enough to repeat the old man’s words at the dinner table. 

Much was never said at the parson’s table, but this time 
Dean Malm sat perfectly silent, and, dinner being over, 
he went back to his study without a word. Yet no one 
paid any attention to his reticence, silence being the rule 
of the house. 

The young people adjourned to the garden, seating 
themselves on the sunlit lawn. Soon Axel threw himself 


52 


on his back, his eyes exploring the blue sky, the other two 
meanwhile talking together in a low voice. 

“If there must be talking, I beg to request that you talk 
aloud,” Axel demanded serio-comically. “I am holding 
converse with the gods above and you mortals disturb me 
with your prattle.” 

He sat up and eyed the two with a speaking look. 
Henry Falconer looked sheepish, but Harriet braved his 
scrutiny. 

“Here I lie, listening to the numberless voices of silence,” 
Axel Malm continued — with a grand gesture — , “I hear 
the grass grow; I hear the very pulse of nature throb. 
I am listening to what the flowers are saying, and yet you 
dare to interrupt!” 

“By all means, lie down and listen,” urged Henry. 
“We promise not to utter a sound, provided you tell us 
what the flowers are saying.” 

“Well, I’ll please you to the extent of putting my ear 
to the bosom of Mother Earth, but no more. To interpret 
to you the language of the flowers, — well, it simply can’t 
be done. I might as well try to describe music in words. 
It takes a fine ear to appreciate music, but a much finer 
to catch the sublime and mystic articulations of nature. 
As I lie here on my back in the grass, every nerve tingling 
in the light of the sun, I distinctly hear the voice of 
Mother Nature, and, more than that, the voices of her 
myriad children.” 

After a moment of silence he started humming an old 


53 

college tune. Soon the words suggested themselves, and 
before he was aware of it, he was singing out with full 
voice : 

“Oh, how fit for gods this place is, 

Oh, how good to live to-day! 

See how fresh and green the grasses, 

Hear the birds sing forth their lay! 

Bumblebees and bugs accost us; 

Heav’n with song of larks is filled ; 

Aye, the flowers themselves would toast us, 

Each in cup with nectar filled.” 

His song rang out loud and clear, its tones penetrating 
even the silence that was wont to surround the person of 
Miss Rosa. The uncalled for vociferation ought by right 
to have annoyed her; nevertheless she was unable to sup- 
press a smile. The fact was, young Axel had taken her 
by storm. The same sounds reached the ears of Dean 
Malm seated at his study table, causing the old man at 
first to prick up his ears and then bow his head attentively 
at this pean to the joy of living. 

“What makes you always so cheerful, Axel?” queried 
his sister with a hint of bitterness or regret in her tone. 

“Cheerful ? — How can you use such a trite word ? 
On a day like this, with sunshine and blue sky, flowers 
covering the moors and meadows, with turtledoves cooing 
to one another and the cuckoo singing for his own enjoy- 
ment — with sly reference to his two companions and him- 
self — , then ‘cheerful’ is no word at all. I am simply 


54 


intoxicated with the elixir of life; I am drowning in the 
flood of joy that fills me within and surrounds me with- 
out. Harriet, don’t you ever feel the transcendent joy of 
living, the bliss of being alive in a world of beauty? Are 
you never carried away as on waves of beatitude? To me 
the greatness of existence, of being a human individual, 
at times swallows up all other considerations.” 

“We are made of coarser clay than you, I suppose,” 
Henry Falconer rejoined, presuming to speak for Harriet 
as well as for himself. “You are the idealist, with clear 
vision of that beauty which we cannot see, because we 
have dust in our eyes, or because we have strained our 
vision looking for the things we want, while forgetting 
the things we have. We sense the beautiful of the world 
around us in a way, we materialists, but we are too much 
occupied with our own unfulfilled desires to be able to 
derive the pleasure from the present moment that you do. 
You say life plays charming melodies all about us, and 
within us. I, for one, can’t hear the music, — there must 
be something lacking. ...” 

He finished abruptly, with a slight blush. In his effort 
to make clear his own position and to rally to the defense 
of Harriet’s point of view, he had almost said too much. 
Fortunately, no one took note of his discomfiture. 

During a moment of silence following the argument, 
a young girl passed through the front gate and was trip- 
ping gracefully up the walk when Axel Malm was struck 
by a whim. 


55 


“Oh, May!” he called to her, “come here a moment, 
please.” 

The girl turned on the lowest step of the portico and 
approached the group smiling. 

“Pray, tell us, May, isn’t it a glorious thing to be alive?” 
he asked. 

Not knowing what to make of the question, the young 
girl stood before them with downcast eyes, unwilling to 
hazard a reply. Still unaccustomed to kindness, a thing 
unknown on the moor farm whence she had come, she 
thought it no little thing to be questioned in such a matter 
by the son of the house. His meaning she was unable to 
conjecture, but his clear blue eyes looked into hers in a 
way to set her heart beating faster. 

“Why, yes, — of course,” she said at length, encouraged 
by his frank, cordial look. 

“Good! I win. You’re in the wrong, you two,” he 
shouted, turning to Harriet and Henry. “May says so, 
and she’s an impartial judge.” 

The young girl from the wilderness flushed vividly, 
not knowing what was at stake, nor what bearing her 
verdict might have, yet she withdrew with a light heart, 
conscious of being on Axel’s side and of having aided him 
in gaining a point. 



X. 

Letters That Kill 

The old-time silence was restored in the parsonage when 
the two young men left to resume their studies at the 
university. But it was not the same dead monotony as 
before. They had left behind a subtle influence, and 
stirred up a host of new ideas in Harriet’s mind. She had 
been given to understand that she possessed prerequisites 
for making her life count. Youth, health, knowledge and 
mental power were hers; all that she needed was oppor- 
tunity. She no longer feared city life. In so far as she 
would be able to invest her powers, such a life would 
cease to be mere play-acting, as she had imagined it. 

Again father and daughter sat together in the study. 
The dean was in hopes that their mutual studies would 
be resumed, the old order restored, but the old books no 
longer fully satisfied the young woman. For a time book 
lore may satisfy youthful thirst for knowledge, but when 
life itself begins to reveal to them its depth and beauty, 
the printed volumes become dead letters, and life is trans- 


57 


muted from the potentialities of thought and theory into 
action and its results. 

Dean Malm saw full well that Harriet had received a 
number of new impressions. These he hoped would prove 
volatile and unenduring, but they had set a new, inerasa- 
ble stamp on her life. She kept drifting away from him, 
and the chasm widened between them. Life’s voices, 
which no longer beckoned to the aging parson, now rang 
clear in his daughter’s ears. She realized that he lapsed 
deeper and deeper into stagnation and darkness. 

More than ever her eyes were open to the harm done 
to the parish by her father’s putting his light under the 
bushel. In pursuing ideal things he had deserted the real 
things. Like a farmer neglecting or abandoning his fields, 
so the parson had failed to till the spiritual field entrusted 
to his care. His studies had absorbed all the interest and 
energy demanded by the people whose spiritual adviser and 
guide he was to have been. 

At one time Harriet had gloried in the lofty pedestal 
upon which her father’s learning had placed him. Now 
she saw with grief that it had set him beyond the reach 
of the people and brought him out of all contact with 
them. She felt, too, some degree of responsibility for con- 
ditions as they were, having had a part in drawing her 
father’s interest away from his first duty, while the field 
to which he owed his labors was running to weeds. 

Now she wanted to leave the place. It was too narrow 
for her, and she could no longer bear to witness the grad- 


58 

ual decay. Not that she loathed the environment in it- 
self; on the contrary, she loved her native place intensely, 
cherishing for it an attachment shared by no other spot 
on earth. She would be homeless anywhere else. And 
her father, an old man with silvery hair, — was he to sit 
here like a hermit, delving in his books? Could she leave 
him thus? Her heart said no, but life beckoned her 
away. 

One day Harriet came into the study while her father 
was busily engaged in preparing next Sunday’s sermon. 
Without knocking, she hurried softly over to his desk. 
Laying his pen aside, he looked up into her face and 
perceived instantly that what she had to tell him was not 
pleasant. 

“What are you doing, father?” she began. 

“I am writing my sermon, as you see?” he replied. 

“Don’t you ever tire of preaching, father, having kept 
it up these thirty years?” Harriet pursued. 

He looked at her in surprise. 

“Yes, for thirty years,” she said. “At first you spoke 
to great crowds. Last Sunday there were seven in 
church. How do you feel about this?” 

What did she mean? She, always considerate before, 
now turned so brutal! There was a strange fire in her 
eye as she spoke. 

With a shrug of his shoulders, the parson reached for 
the pen to resume writing. 

Harriet burst into tears. To see his proud daughter 


59 

weeping was too much for him. It touched him to the 
quick. 

“Dear child, what is the matter?” he blurted, wiping 
his glasses vehemently. 

Harriet kept crying, not nervously and turbulently, as 
weak women do, but with a quiet dignity, as one who is 
strong to bear sorrow. Silence reigned in the study and 
from the shelves all around the room the old tomes stood 
in rows and looked grimly down at their weeping friend. 

Harriet suddenly drew the handkerchief from her eyes 
and made a threatening gesture toward the books. 

“Father,” she said appealingly, “burn all those old 
books! Burn them, every one, and start life anew.” 

He was shocked. Had his daughter lost her senses? 
No, her face was bright with intelligence, and she spoke 
with the inexorable power that characterized the prophets 
of old. 

“Burn them, father!” — she repeated. “They have 
led you from the path of duty. They have blinded you 
to the reality. You don’t know how things are going in 
the parish. There’s drinking and stealing everywhere. 
Your parishioners are leading the roughest kind of life, 
putting them in bad repute and causing all decent people 
to remove from the neighborhood.” 

Having spoken rapidly and with unwonted energy, she 
stopped to gain her breath. 

“But, my dear child,” he interposed, “is that my fault?” 

He spoke calmly but in a tone of dismay. 


6o 

“No, father, not you, but your books are at fault. They 
have taken all your time — your best years. But it is 
not too late to change. Give up you books, or burn them 
if need be — and turn back to real life. When you have 
seen all the wretchedness, the superstition, the baseness 
and brutality hereabouts, — then preach. Preach to these 
people with the thunder voice of Sinai, for they have for- 
gotten the Lord God and all his commandments. Speak 
so these dead bones awake and live!” 

She was beautiful as she spoke. Her face seemed trans- 
figured with the faith, fire, and conviction of youth. 

The old parson turned his gray head slowly away, his 
eyes dazzled by the ardor that shone from his daughter’s 
eyes. In that moment he recalled a young preacher who 
once had spoken as Harriet spoke, possessed of the faith 
that was in her, inspired by her fire and zeal. With his 
compelling eloquence he would kindle a fire that was to 
consume all that was doomed to destruction; awake the 
slumberers with the thunders of Sinai; strike down evil 
with the lightning bolts of truth. And at first he had 
seemed to have all the prerequisites for success, for the 
great church had been crowded to overflowing. He had 
rejoiced, and Magnild, his young wife, had shared his 
hopes and spurred his ambition. 

How he had loved these plain, rude, ignorant folk! 
They had been like fatherless children, like sheep with- 
out a shepherd, until he had come to help and lead them, 


6i 


— he and the gentle shepherdess who slept these twenty 
years. 

“Burn these books,” Harriet had advised. The child! 
What did she know? To him, after the shipwreck of 
life’s joy and hope, they had been the plank that kept 
him from going down. Without them he would have 
been lost, and for his children’s sake he must not go down. 

His sorrows were his own, and he alone must bear 
them. 

All these bitter reflections suggested themselves at the 
advice given by his daughter. When she had regained her 
composure he had his reply ready. It was this: 

“I burn nothing. Every book is dear to me.” 

Before Harriet’s eyes the glittering temple of hope fell 
like a house of cards. Her attempt to bridge the ever 
widening chasm between them had utterly failed. From 
this moment on they were doomed to isolation. 

“Father, let me look you in the eyes,” demanded Har- 
riet. 

“No, never mind,” said the parson curtly. The kindly 
light in his eyes was extinguished ; there was nothing but 
dead, gray ashes left. 

She looked at her father fondly, though he turned his 
back to her, and felt an impulse to stroke his gray head, 
but his brash “no” barred her. 

“Good-bye, then, father,” and she left the room with sad 
but determined steps. When she had gone, the parson 


62 


stared long at her accustomed place in the study. It was 
vacant now — for good and all. 

He rose, went to the door of the study, and turned the 
lock. 





XI. 

A Maiden Wooed and Won 

Harriet was now fully aware that from her father 
there was nothing to hope for. His last word had sounded 
the death knell to her hopes for his rejuvenation. But 
she had youth and strength. Had she suffered defeat, 
well and good — she would be so much the better pre- 
pared for the next battle. 

Her power and self-confidence grew as she strolled out 
of the hamlet one day, thinking over her future course. 
When she reached the high point from which she was 
wont to view the surrounding country, she fell to examin- 
ing her own feelings, instead of viewing nature’s pano- 
rama. 

She felt a new inspiration, — whence had it come ? 
What was it that had given such courage and strength? 
Whence came the power that emboldened her to appear as 
critic and mentor of her own father? 

Deep within her she heard strains of music, strong but 
sweet, and she saw the musician before her, the young 


6 4 

engineer-artist, Henry Falconer. It became clear to her 
now that it was that music that had awakened her soul. 
Ay, more than that, it was the melodious interpretation 
of his own feelings that first aroused her interest in the 
young stranger, and at this moment she secretly owned to 
a fervent affection for him. 

She sank down in her favorite place on a rock and her 
cheeks flushed as the secret of her heart dawned upon her 
here in nature’s solitude. She hid her face in her hands 
as if in fear that the very trees would read her secret in 
her blush — a secret too precious to be imparted by word 
or look. 

In his study meanwhile sits the old parson, bending 
deeply over the desk before him. His sorrow is too pro- 
found for tears. He is brooding over the problem of his 
life, his own and Harriet’s, and it is but a groping in the 
dark. Not one ray of light; no solution. Evasion is the 
only way open : he must read, study, forget . . . 

He rises from his chair and takes from one of the shelves 
his favorite author. Presently he is so engrossed in the 
poet’s lines that his eyes and ears are shut to the outside 
world. 

Miss Rosa knocked gently at his door and turned the 
knob. It would not open. She announced a caller who 
had important business. There was no response from 
within. 

“He is sleeping,” she announced, as she returned to the 
visitor in the vestibule. 


65 

“Perhaps I may see Miss Harriet, then,” ventured the 
caller, whom she recognized as the young engineer, yet 
treated as a total stranger. 

“She went up to the hilltop, and I can’t say when she 
will return,” he was coldly informed. “I might send 
some one to look for her, if you insist,” she added, with 
scant encouragement. 

“Never mind, I’ll look her up myself,” — and before 
Miss Rosa had time to remonstrate, Henry Falconer was 
off for the hillcrest. 

With Miss Rosa’s temperament and her set notions 
about propriety, one would feel outraged at less. The 
very idea of the young man rushing off like that, scouring 
the woods for a young lady as if she were mere game! 
Besides, who knew anything about this young fellow. 
Surely Harriet knew him no better than did the rest, still 
she must have had a hand in this. Such manners as the 
young folks have nowadays! In Rosa’s younger days a 
girl who tried to put over an affair like this with a total 
stranger would have been promptly curbed, — indeed ! 

Miss Rosa worked herself into a fine fit of anger at the 
ways of modern youth. 

The parson had just entered his study after a walk in 
the garden. It was a day of interruptions and mental 
disturbance. He was about to finish the manuscript for 
his sermon when in came Harriet and Henry Falconer 
unannounced. 

“Reverend sir,” said the latter, stepping up bravely and 

Reclaimed. 3 . 


66 


bowing humbly before the dean, “I have come to ask for 
your daughter’s hand.” 

In his wrought up state of mind nothing could surprise 
or further perturb the old gentleman on that day. For 
one long minute he looked out of the window, over where 
she slept who once stood flushed and expectant by his side 
as his daughter now stood by the side of him to whom 
her heart had yielded. He fought hard to maintain the 
calm and dignity that befits a father in a like situation, 
and more particularly a man of his profession, meanwhile 
seeking to mask his nervousness by wiping his spectacles 
with extreme care. 

Raising his eyes at length, he looked squarely into the 
earnest face of the young engineer ; then turned them upon 
his daughter. Their happiness was revealed in the counte- 
nance of both, as also a set purpose that would brook no 
opposition. His knowledge of his own self told him that 
resistance would be useless and setting up conditions would 
avail nothing. This was a case where nothing remained 
for the parent but to join the hands of two young mortals 
whom love had already made one. 

When supper was over, and the young pair had with- 
drawn to the garden, Miss Rosa made haste to interview 
her brother-in-law on what she termed “unseemly goings- 
on” in the house. 

“Why have not I been told of this?” she demanded. 
“I, who have been as a mother to your child all these 


67 

years,” she continued with all the dignity at her com- 
mand. 

The parson was slightly shocked. The strident notes 
of the day had just softened into sweet harmony, when 
Miss Rosa struck this discord, so jarring to the parson’s 
sensibilities at this particular time. 

“Harriet has had neither mother nor father,” he said 
after a moment’s thought. He was reconciled to what 
had happened, without let or hindrance on his part, and 
rejoiced inwardly at the manifest happiness of the young 
people. 

Miss Rosa found no reply, tacitly admitting the truth 
of the parson’s terse statement. So she took a new tack. 

“Has the young man got anything?” she inquired with 
an inpertinence little short of rudeness. 

The parson did not grasp her meaning. 

“Can he support a wife, I mean,” she reiterated in 
plainer terms and with ill concealed distemper. 

“I don’t know, I am sure, Miss Rosa. I have not given 
that matter a thought,” the parson replied suavely. 

At this the little lady flew into a fury. 

“Do you ever think about anything?” she upbraided 
him. “A fine father, indeed, to throw his daughter at the 
first stranger that applies, and she a refined young lady 
who might have married to great advantage!” The last 
words were spoken midway between a hiss and a whisper. 

This time Dean Malm fully understood. 

“What God hath joined together let no man put asun- 


68 


der,” he quoted in a reverent voice, then added this ul- 
timatum : “Now we will speak no more of this.” 

The irate little lady, taken very much aback by the sud- 
den assertiveness of this big man whom she had managed 
completely for a score of years, retired in a great huff to 
her own apartment. Never again did she touch upon this 
matter in the parson’s presence. As for the betrothed 
young couple, she came to hold their covenant in great 
respect as she learnt to know the young intruder better. 




XII. 

The Spirit That Giveth Life 

Late that night, after the lights were out in the par- 
sonage, the lamp was still burning in the parson’s study. 
The silvery-haired divine was bending over his desk, still 
engaged in the task of finishing his sermon, a process so 
often interrupted. 

His mind wanders from the text, and he sits there 
thinking of his own life. A barren thing it appears; a 
dark road lit up but sparingly and at long intervals. Only 
to-night he seems to be passing one of the lights along the 
way. The love irradiated by the young couple had 
warmed his own heart. 

The door opens and Harriet steals to the old man’s 
side. 

“Father dear,” she falters, and the two are joined in 
an embrace firm and long. 

They sit silent for a long while, she upon his lap as in 
years gone by when he was teaching her the letters. 



70 

“Father, I had to see you once more — I had to come 
and ask your pardon” . . . 

“No — no,” he protested gently, “you were in the right, 
my child. Make no apology for speaking the truth.” 

“Yes, it was the truth — one side of it. I now see the 
other side. I asked you to put the thunders of Sinai into 
your sermons in order to wake the people up. Now I am 
convinced that you will accomplish more by preaching 
love than law, for love is the greatest power in the world, 
the greatest force in life, — life itself. We have sat here, 
you and I, trying to live by and through books. Then 
came real life knocking at my door. Henry came and 
with him love. Now that I know love, I believe in life, 
real, actual life, not a mere semblance of it. Life is ac- 
tion. We must 

“Act, act in the living present,” 

— not bury ourselves in the dead past. And now that 
my eyes have been opened, I have regained faith in these 
people — your people. Their salvation can and must be 
worked out.” 

A short silence followed. The old parson understood 
his daughter’s meaning perfectly. His memory reverted 
to the time when Magnhild came into his life. It was 
a spark of the mother’s zeal and enthusiasm that had now 
been rekindled in the daughter. 

We began to recount the past, dwelling on the time 
when he and his young wife first came to the parish. He 
glowed with enthusiasm as he spoke of the revival and 


7i 


moral betterment that marked the first year of his pas- 
torate there. Then of the relapse and the decadence that 
followed upon Magnhild’s death. He had sown the good 
seed, given the people the best there was in him to give, 
yet the field had borne nothing but thistles and thorns. 

“Oh, my child,” he exclaimed, heartsick and dis- 
couraged, “is it any wonder that in such circumstances a 
man gives up, abandons the field, and takes refuge in in- 
tellectual pursuits? For a pastor to work among perverse 
and degenerate people is little better than being a grave- 
digger. He has nothing to do with them until they are 
dead. — It was just as natural for me to take to my 
studies as for some men to resort to strong drink, or for 
others to yield to the all-consuming passion for making 
money. All of us are likely to yield entirely to some predi- 
lection when we are up against it, when we grow tired 
of fighting, and life seems a failure.” 

With these words Dean Malm lifted a corner of the 
drapery that concealed his true self. 

“Father dear,” — Harriet sought to put comfort into 
her tone, — “you must not imagine that all the good seed 
you have sown is lost. You remember the words of the 
poet, — 

“Thoughts pure and just, acts born of love sublime, 

And beauty wrought in dreams, endure for aye ; 

That harvest, rescued from the storms of time, 

Shall fill God’s granaries beyond the sky. 

Mankind, be brave! Go forth at life’s behest! 

Thou bear’st eternity within thy breast.” 


72 

Her every word struck home. Her youthful trust and 
zeal, her unswerving faith in the future, shattered his 
skepticism and gave him to see as with new eyes. The 
veil which had so long obscured his outlook upon life was 
now drawn aside. With eyes of hope he began to see 
the seed he had sown sprout and give promise of rich 
harvest. 

The parson rewrote his sermon from first to last, and 
on the following Sunday he preached with a power and 
enthusiasm that astonished his hearers. He had chosen 
his text from the thirteenth chapter of first Corinthians. 
It was a grand homily on the power of love, simple withal, 
which went to the heart of every one. 

“For now we see in a mirror, darkly; but then face to 
face: now I know in part; but then shall I know fully 
even as also I was fully known.” These words the parson 
read as though for the first time. Might he not take this 
passage to himself as presaging a coming change from dark- 
ness to light in his own life, another and surer promise of 
a spiritual springtime and a new birth for his parish? 

“If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but 
have not love, I am become sounding brass, or a clanging 
cymbal,” — when he preached on these words, both his 
daughter and the parson himself imagined that her love 
had furnished the motive. It soon became clear to him, 
however, that the words put into his mouth were inspired 
by some other power. They kept resounding in his own 


73 


ears, preaching more powerfully to him than he to his 
hearers. 

He began to feel more deeply the needs of his people. 
A profound compassion seized him. He must give them 
the water of life. While Magnhild was with him it had 
seemed easy to give comfort to others, easy to dispense 
spiritual succor and preach the gospel of love. But after 
her departure, his life had been a wandering in the desert, 
where there was not water enough to quench his own 
thirst, much less to give to the people. Now his own 
thirst had become insufferable. He must smite the rock 
of truth. After twenty years in the wilderness, he was 
filled with an insatiable longing for the Land of Promise. 

The preacher and pastor of more than thirty years’ ex- 
perience in guiding, or rather attempting to guide others 
in the way of life, now himself became a true seeker after 
God. He sought at first as the strayed child, lost in the 
forest on a dark, misty day, anxiously searches for the 
homeward path. At length it begins to call, to cry out 
aloud, and listen for an answer from the supposed direc- 
tion of the home. It calls and calls. Suddenly the bell 
of the village church begins to toll. The child follows 
the guiding tones and soon finds its way home in safety. 

Dean Malm sought the strait and narrow way and 
found it. It lead him into a new world as full of life as 
the old was full of death, a world that gave riches for 
poverty, light for darkness. Of the new light in which 


74 


he walked he read with amazement and new understand- 
ing: 

“The sun shall be no more thy light by day; neither 
for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee: but 
Jehovah will be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy 
God thy glory. Thy sun shall no more go down, neither 
shall thy moon withdraw itself; for Jehovah will be thine 
everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be 
ended.” 

And in the sequel to these words of the prophet Isaiah 
he found a promise that held good during the remainder 
of his pastoral career: 

“Thy people also shall be all righteous; they shall in- 
herit the land forever, the branch of my planting, the 
work of my hands, that I may be glorified. The little 
one shall become a thousand, and the small one a strong 
nation: I, Jehovah will hasten it in its time.” 

The farther he penetrated into this new world, the 
brighter the light, and its horizon was brightest of all. 
Death had no power here, for those who had entered it 
had passed from death unto life. It was the kingdom of 
God on earth, the eternal life begun here below, invisible 
and unknown to most mortals. 

A funeral was held on the day that the parson preached 
his sermon on love, so a large crowd of people happened 
to be in attendance. The news of the “remarkable ser- 
mon” spread like wildfire, as indeed there was in it a fire 
that kindled and spread in the hearts pf many in the 


75 


audience. The following Sunday many more came to 
hear, and the number increased from week to week. And 
as the old parson stood in his pulpit looking over his great 
audience, knowing how small a share he had in bringing 
them there, he was overwhelmed with the realization of 
the power and glory of the divine gospel, and he felt as 
never before that he was the mere spokesman for some 
other one, the messenger and servant of Almighty God. 
The words that were given him to speak he knew to be 
the words of God himself. He no longer had any doubt 
that he was scattering the seeds from which eternal life 
was to spring. 

The wintry gloom began to give way, the cold to yield, 
the ice to break up, and the hearts in the parish to thaw 
out. True, there were further frosts and storms to come, 
but the new light was irresistible ; it bore life-giving power 
and caused all that it touched to awake, and live, and 
grow. 

The springtime predicted by Magnhild on her death- 
bed, — had it come at last? 






XIII. 

Sunnycrest 

Many years passed, and great changes took place. One 
who had not seen the little hamlet around the church for 
fifteen years would not have recognized it now. Of the 
houses dating from that time there was none but the par- 
sonage left standing. Formerly that had been the only 
two-story structure in the place; now there were rows 
of neat and commodious houses, most of them as large as 
that, and some larger. The narrow, crooked lane that 
had been lined with little thatched huts had been trans- 
formed into a straight, well graded street with walks on 
either side, and rows of modern residences. One might 
wonder how all this had come about, and where all the 
people had come from; but a glance at the neighboring 
factories and the railway station surrounded by great piles 
of lumber furnished the explanation. Enterprise had 
given the place an unprecedented development in the 
course of a few years. A visit to the local bank, which 
carries on a prosperous business in a spacious, up-to-date 


77 


building, is sufficient proof of a thrifty and well-to-do 
population. 

A tall, fine-looking stranger, who has just stepped off 
the train and passes up the street casting surprised glances 
to right and left, is asking himself whether the moral and 
spiritual development of the parish has kept pace with 
the material progress evidenced on every side. He looks 
at the well-built schoolhouse. He finds a hospital occupy- 
ing the ground where there was once a disreputable dram- 
shop. When he arrives at the parsonage, he turns in at 
the gate and walks familiarly up the steps and into the 
vestibule, as if entirely at home. Of the pretty young lady 
who meets him there he simply inquires for Dean Malm, 
there being no sign of recognition on either side. Learning 
that the parson is not at home and not expected till later, 
he leaves his grip and promises to return. 

There is much yet to be seen, for Axel Malm has not 
been home for years. He takes the old familiar path 
across the meadow to the churchyard. He finds that the 
old church has undergone repairs; and the God’s Acre 
near by, which at one time was the most neglected spot 
in the parish, now bears evidence of being under the care 
of skillful and reverent hands. 

Axel sought his mother’s grave. How he had longed 
for that hallowed spot! In the turmoil of life abroad, 
during his restless search for knowledge, his soul had not 
found peace ; and here, by the tomb of his sainted mother, 
he hoped to find it at last. 


7 » 

But the progress and innovation everywhere in evidence 
made quiet contemplation impossible. Not even here was 
rest to be found. 

On his way from the cemetery, he accosted an old 
woman who was clearing weeds from the graveled walks : 

“Your old village has forged ahead a bit of late, my 
friend. Who is back of it all — all this progress?” 

The woman looked at him quizzically with her dim 
eyes. The progress the stranger spoke of she had not 
noticed. Having no idea what he meant, she simply stared 
blandly at him. Taking for granted that the old woman 
was an inmate of the near-by poorhouse, he put a question 
she would understand. 

“Well, how are things over there nowadays,” he que- 
ried, indicating the institution with a slight gesture. 

She brightened up at once, and the answer came in an 
easy flow of words: 

“Thank you, kind sir, we old folks never had it better 
in our lives. Nice and cozy and warm the rooms are, 
and a drop of afternoon coffee we get every day. And 
it’s no use of the superintendent getting fussy and domi- 
neering, for the old parson drops in most every day to 
kind of look after things. ... ” 

He saw that the woman had a great deal more to say, 
but as he had learnt all that he wanted to know he handed 
her a coin and moved on through the city of the dead. 

“The old parson drops in most every day,” she had 


79 


said. Could this be same old parson, the recluse of the 
study that he knew his father to be? 

Farther on a man was digging a grave. Axel stopped 
and spoke. 

“There has been some changes around here in the last 
few years,” he suggested. 

“Well, I should say there has,” the digger agreed, rest- 
ing his foot on the spade for a moment. “Things were 
set ahumming by that young engineer all right,” he 
answered with a familiar air. 

“Who, if I may ask?” 

“Why, the manager of the whole works, Henry Fal- 
coner, of course. There’s a man and a hustler, — every 
inch of him. He’s put in a lot of money in those moors 
yonder, and gotten out some, too, let me tell you. He 
knows all about rational farming and the lumber business 
and manufacturing. There’s a man that can’t be beat.” 

Spitting in his hand, the man fell to digging with a 
vim for a minute or two while the stranger looked on. 
When he stopped again, Axel inquired: 

“Where does that man live.” 

“Up yonder, sir.” He pointed to a splendid mansion 
crowning the nearest hilltop. “We call it the castle, be- 
cause the boss lives there. They call it Sunnycrest. You 
go up there, and I warrant you the doors are wide open 
to you.” 

Axel looked with admiration at the great white man- 
sion on the crest of the hill from which his sister from her 


8o 


childhood had been wont to survey her narrow little 
world. 

“You go up there,” the laborer urged. “You will not 
regret it. A man like Henry Falconer is worth knowing. 
You’ll not soon find his equal. And as for Mrs. Falconer, 
you’ll have to look far and wide for another lady like that. 
God bless them both! They have done a lot for us. If 
all the bigwigs were like them , a fellow wouldn’t mind 
being poor.” 

With a good-humored smile at the homely eloquence 
bestowed by the simple laborer on his sister and brother- 
in-law, Axel Malm made his way towards Sunnycrest. 

The location, dominating the entire surroundings, was 
indeed fit for any castle. Below lay the little industrial 
town with its pretty cottage homes, each with an attrac- 
tive, well-kept little garden. Back of this was the forest, 
and beyond lay the great moors and marshes. From his 
windows Henry Falconer had a view of the great mills 
that harnessed the rapids, and of all the little common- 
wealth created by his engineering skill and ingenuity. 

Axel Malm had barely climbed the front steps and put 
his foot on the spacious piazza of Sunnycrest when he 
realized that the place was most fitly named. 

But when the mistress of this home, tall and stately, 
met him — queenlike in bearing, he knew, too, why it was 
popularly known as the castle. 

Having been admitted, Axel stood for a moment rigid 
and silent, to see at what distance Harriet would recog- 


8i 

nize him. He was conscious of having changed a great 
deal in appearance since his last visit in the home parish. 

But a few steps, and she suddenly abandoned the dignity 
reserved for strangers for the cordiality more fit for the 
reception of a brother. 

“Why, Axel — is it you?” she exclaimed and clasped 
her twin brother in a warm embrace. 

A moment later they were seated in a charming recess 
of the house, engrossed in a confidential chat. 

“How fine and dignified you look!” Harriet led off, 
looking squarely into her brother’s expressive counte- 
nance. 

“And how queenlike and gracious my little sister,” he 
repaid her in kind. And a queen you surely are in King 
Henry’s realm.” 

“No, no, Axel ; not a queen, only a wife and a mother,” 
she protested. 

“No ? W ell, that does not interfere with your sovereign- 
ty as mistress of this lordly castle,” he pursued, humorous- 
ly applying his late information. 

“This is not a castle,” she corrected him. “It is design- 
ed as a bright and comfortable home , that and nothing 
more. To me this is the dearest spot on this earth. ‘My 
home is my church’. The people down there call it “The 
Castle,” and if strangers look for luxuries here, they will 
be disappointed. But anyone who likes to see a real home, 
full of good cheer, a home designed for use, not for show, 
will be glad to come here, as we mean that he should be.” 


82 


“Yes; I understand you quite, and everything here bears 
you out,” he conceded, sweeping the apartment with an 
admiring look. 

“Now you just go on and talk. I’ll listen,” he urged. 

This pleased Harriet, for there was nothing she liked 
quite so much to talk about as her home. 

“In a home, air, light, and water are three essentials for 
health,” she proceeded categorically, as if she were to give 
a lecture in hygiene. “When Henry and I were to build 
a home we mere agreed on the principle of high, airy, 
sunny rooms, and in the matter of furnishing our choice 
was always furniture, draperies and upholstering that 
could be kept clean. Furthermore, I like you to know 
that Henry has made most of the furniture with his own 
hands, while nearly all the rugs, carpets, curtains, draperies 
and furniture coverings are my own work. In this way 
a home becomes one’s own in a very special sense.” 

They rose, and she conducted him through the house. 
At every turn Axel was confronted with same original 
feature or arrangement which appealed to him, and he 
was forced to admit that in the delicate art of home-mak- 
ing Harriet and Henry had succeeded remarkably well. 

“If I had not seen other evidence of Henry’s creative 
genius on all sides since my arrival to-day, I should say 
he missed his natural calling when he did not turn cabinet- 
maker. I never knew he was so handy with tools.” 

“Nor that your sister was able to weave such things as 


/ 


83 

these,” Harriet added, pointing to her home-made curtain 
drapes.” 

They were artistic, he granted, but, better than that, 
durable and serviceable. The beauty and fitness of things 
throughout the house compelled his admiration. 

Next they made the round of the lawn and garden, 
which formed a setting in perfect keeping with the house 
itself. 

Axel had just completed his tour of inspection when 
Henry Falconer returned home. 

After the first warm handshake his first question was, 
“Well, how do you like Sunnycrest?” 

His eyes were on Harriet most of the time, Axel noticed. 

“It is simply charming, old boy, — the most harmonious 
home I have ever seen,” he readily granted, “and why 
shouldn’t it be, with my learned sister as the presiding 
genius,” he added slyly. 

“You are right, Axel,” said Henry, ignoring the good- 
natured slur, “what would Sunnycrest be without the sun, 
— a castle without a mistress, a mere house, not a home.” 

Another ardent disciple of the home cult had been 
heard from. His pean of praise was suddenly interrupted 
by noises from the hall betraying the presence of some very 
live and active members of the family. 

In they came, three tall, sturdy boys, their eyes spar- 
kling with exuberant good spirits. Their introduction to 
the strange uncle proceeded with the usual show of paren- 
tal pride, or, should we say modesty. 


84 

“This is Olov, our oldest son,” said the mother. 

The boy bowed politely, with something of his mother’s 
grace and dignity. 

“Olov can go through with anything he undertakes, but 
his mind is not yet made up as to what he will do,” 
supplied the father. 

“And this is Gustav, the musician, and Eric, the coming 
engineer.” 

The introduction over, all three in turn moved over to 
where their mother stood. 

“This is my life guard, as you see. While that stands, 
who shall dare to molest me?” jested the mistress of the 
castle, mock-heroically. 

They formed a splendid group, both men commented 
mentally. 

Henry Falconer then dropped down easily at the piano 
and began to play under the inspiration of the moment. 
The music turned into a hymn in praise of love and 
domestic felicity. 

Axel Malm had come out of a turbulent world to find 
rest and peace in his native village. He found it no longer 
a sleeping hamlet, but a town throbbing with life and 
impulse. And back of it all was love. From the chords 
that rang from the strings he thought he heard a message 
which he interpreted thus: Love is the greatest thing in 
the world; love is the motive power in life; love is that 
which lends beauty and value to our mortal existence. 

* * # 


85 

“Tell me, Henry,” said Axel Malm, as the two men 
walked down towards the little town, “how all this has 
been accomplished. All that I have seen and heard since 
my return home is more like a fairy tale than a reality.” 

“Well, there isn’t much to tell that your eyes have not 
already told you,” the engineer answered. “To use a 
figure, I might say that when you and I chummed to- 
gether, I was like a steam engine. It was all there but 
the steam. I met Harriet. My affection for her created 
an ambition to do things. She furnished the steam. Her 
native place became my home. I saw the enormous re- 
sources of this district in its forests and its water power. 
I figured that these people could be helped on their feet, — 
these sturdy, old-fashioned, conservative folk who have 
been plodding along all these years tilling their little 
patches of poor, sour, soggy soil, only perhaps to have the 
year’s harvest ruined by the first night of early frost. 
Anyone might have figured out that here was a fine oppor- 
tunity for all concerned to make good money by turning 
the old forests into lumber and manufactured products. 
But it fell to my lot to do so and thereby lighten the bur- 
dens of these people. I did not do it by paying them in 
one sum for their timber lots. That would have been no 
better than trying to help a tramp by giving him something 
for nothing instead of letting him work for it. True, I 
purchased the forests, but there was a stipulation in each 
contract that the seller was to cut the timber himself and 
put in a certain number of days of work draining the 


86 


moors and marshes. You ought to have seen how they 
worked! I was along myself the first weeks or months 
to get them fairly started and look after the work. When 
I had got them to the point where they could see the pur- 
pose of draining the morasses, I organized a cooperative 
company. Now they saw that they were working for 
their own good, and the result was still greater exertion. 
This required bodily strength and endurance, so I demon- 
strated to them the ruinous effect of alcohol on the human 
system, for only a few of their huskiest men, young or old, 
could beat me handling the spade. When they expressed 
surprise at this, I told them the reason, — I had never 
used strong drink in any form. 

“I have said enough. The power and resources, in 
short, were put to use here ; that is what put life and action 
into this district. But something had to start things going, 
and that was love. Harriet in a letter once called it the 
power of new birth, and she was right.” 


& 



XIV. 

Heart Speaking to Heart 

Dean Malm and his son sat in the study talking over 
the events of the years of Axel’s absence abroad. The 
pauses grew longer, and finally the conversation lapsed 
into silence. 

“You have something in your mind, my boy,” said the 
father at length. “Something troubles you, I perceive.” 

Axel looked into his father’s eyes, and saw there what 
was wanting in his own soul, — the peace that passeth all 
understanding. He opened his heart to his father as never 
before. 

“Father,” he began, “you know with what zest I have 
enjoyed life’s pleasures. Nature always had a great charm 
for me, and when I saw its myriad forms of life and 
beauty, a voice within told me that the source of all this 
must be great and beautiful beyond our ken. When I 
afterwards mingled with the throngs of the cities, life 
took on new fascination for me as I observed the thousands 
of faces and persons and studied the innumerable move- 


88 


ments and expressions, multiplying themselves to infinitude 
like the reflections in the facets of precious gems. As I 
sat in concert halls, and stood before works of art in the 
great galleries, new vistas of life opened before me, and 
all the time I was happy as a prince. 

“Thus the years passed. I had used up a great deal of 
time and money in study and travel, and it was time to 
think of completing my course for the degree. To acquire 
that, I had to pursue the study of philosophy with greater 
zest and life with less. I took to reading although I hated 
books; they seemed so narrow and lifeless; they choked 
the pleasure out of life and changed its bright colors into a 
monotonous drab. 

“The more the hues of life faded, the more I read, until 
it became clear to me that what I had taken for beauty 
was mere baubles. I took my degree with honors, and 
flattered myself with being a better scientist and philoso- 
pher the deader I became to the world. Father, I have 
come home a weary and discouraged man.” 

“And the first thing that meets you here,” said the par- 
son, “is a note from the wonderland of your youth. You 
have heard them sing the praise of love up at Sunnycrest, 
I am sure.” 

“How do you know, father?” 

“One might assume as much, even though one were not 
told.” 

“Told, and by whom?” 

“My knowledge of human nature, or, I may say, love 


89 

tells me that. Love gives us to understand men. No one 
ever knew the deeps of human nature as He who was 
called the Son of Man; and we know our fellow men in 
the degree that we know Him and are known by Him.” 

The son looked at his father in surprise. All things 
were different in his old home. Even his father was a 
changed man. From letters he had surmised as much, but 
now that he was confronted with the evidence of it, his 
astonishment was complete. 

“You are surprised, my son, and well you may be, for 
a great change has come over me — a change that cannot 
be explained, only experienced. When at your age I was 
engaged in laying up knowledge as the miser hoards money, 
I met her who became your mother. Her influence upon 
me was as dominant as that exercised by Harriet upon her 
husband. All that you have told me of your interest in 
life I recall from my own life at the time when Magnhild 
lived. Our heart relations were most intimate, yet when 
she left me she whispered in my ear that her deepest ex- 
perience of life she had never been able to confide to me; 
that was^too beautiful, too sacred for words. 

“I ought to have noticed from the first that the awak- 
ening in the parish was due to her, not to me. Not till 
twenty years after did I realize it. Then I also knew 
that the light and warmth she diffused among the people 
came not from herself but from Christ in her. For being 
one with Christ, that was the great secret of her life.” 

Father and son, after having exchanged confidences, sat 


90 


mute for some moments, with a mutual sense of having 
been brought closer together. 

Then the dean continued : 

“We are born with the power to love, and that is our 
greatest faculty. Thereby we are drawn upwards, while 
all other powers tend to drag us down. He, therefore, 
who would escape being drawn downwards, must let him- 
self be drawn Godward by love. 

“It is not enough to possess an idealistic outlook upon 
life, to think nobly and act rightly. There is but one name 
in which man is saved, one way of salvation. If we will 
not follow that, we must go astray, but if we choose that 
name and walk in that way, then the words are true of us : 
‘As many as received him, to them gave he the right to 
become children of God.’ 

“You have now come to the point where you must 
choose that way. You can no longer afford to do without 
that which gives value and meaning to life. My son, go, 
like Nicodemus, to the Master of Nazareth; He will teach 
you all that you need to know for the life eternal. My 
words and theories are feeble, but He who spoke with 
power will prove a better guide, for He is Himself the 
way, and the truth, and the life; and no one can know 
God, except through Him.” 




XV. 

Impending Disaster 

Henry Falconer was a man of enterprise. When he 
was engaged to Harriet Malm, he made her home district 
his own, the chosen field for his endeavors. The back- 
ward old parish was to be recreated by his initiative and 
business acumen. 

He purchased forests and acquired water power, built 
sawmills and factories, drained the moorlands and marshes, 
and thereby set a stream of gold flowing through his 
fingers out into the pauperized district. And not only 
material gold, but also what is worth more than gold, 
namely, a good example of energy and enterprise, good 
advice, and good will to all. 

His influence was overpowering; everybody looked up 
to him and patterned after him. He proved himself a man 
to be depended on. He made himself worthy of their 
confidence. For Falconer, the trained civil engineer, to 
take advantage of these simple countrymen in exploiting 
the enormous natural resources that had slumbered in their 
possession would have been an easy thing, but he did not 


92 


do it. Everything purchased by him was paid for up to 
its full value. Furthermore, he gave the seller an idea 
as to the best way of placing his newly acquired capital. 

In order to shut out other men, whose business principles 
were quite the reverse of his own square dealing, Falconer 
was forced into starting enterprises that he would have 
preferred to postpone until some later day. Great sums 
of money were required, and, manage as he would, he was 
one day confronted with the bald fact that his various 
enterprises had grown beyond the means at his disposal. 

“You are concealing something from me, Henry,” said 
his wife, entering his office and finding him half submerged 
in journals and ledgers. It was the very day he made his 
startling discovery. 

Looking up at her, his first impulse was to deny her 
statement, but he could not. Her straightforward way 
of going right to the heart of the matter made evasion 
futile. He said nothing. 

“What is it, Henry? Don’t you think I can bear to 
hear the truth?” she pursued. 

“Yes, you are strong, — it is you that is holding me up 
in all my undertakings,” he owned. 

“Well, tell me, then.” 

Still he hesitated. At length he began to speak in a low 
voice : 

“Harriet. Look out of this window. All that you see 
down there has been built up by your love. This is all 
your work. The children in all those laboringmen’s 


93 

homes, who came pale and puny from the cities, and have 
grown healthy and strong in their new environment; the 
sick, who formerly lay neglected or entirely uncared for 
in their old huts, and who now enjoy the best of care at 
our hospital, — all these owe their changed condition to 
you. The men in the factories and their wives and chil- 
dren have you to thank for their betterment. Don’t you 
hear voices of gratitude rising from yonder valley to the 
Lady of the Castle?” 

They stood side by side at the window looking out over 
the busy, pleasant panorama. There was the railway sta- 
tion; there the great factory buildings stretched their 
lengths by the river’s edge ; there lay in long rows the neat 
workingmen’s homes, with their little gardens; there was 
the savings bank, the school, the hospital, — all in the 
bright sunshine, with the dark forests as a somber back- 
ground for the cheerful picture of thrift and prosperity. 

Her eyes used to rest contentedly upon her husband’s 
creation, but now they sought the dark border beyond. 
Was the great beast of disaster to come out of the black 
depths of the forest and swallow them up, herself and the 
knight of her heart, and all the fruits of his labors? 

“I see ominous shadows drawing near. What is it that 
threatens us?” she pleaded to know. 

He sank into his office chair without a word. She stood 
looking at him for an instant, then spoke with all the ten- 
derness and fortitude of her gentle but brave womanly 
heart : 


94 


“Henry, whatever happens, we have one another and 
the children. We are rich and happy, though all else were 
lost.” 

His face brightened. 

“Yes, with such possessions nothing can make us poor,” 
he said, straightening up with reasserted energy. “For- 
give me, Harriet, for being weak for one moment, but the 
thought of you and the children disheartened me. Well, 
I must tell you, — everything seems lost. I can no longer 
keep afloat. Some things, at least, must go by the board.” 

He looked firmly at his wife, proud of a helpmate brave 
enough to look him squarely in the face at such a moment. 

She smiled. 

“Was it so hard to say that?” 

“Yes, for your sake, and the children’s,” he explained. 
“But I see now how strong you are. You were great in 
inspiring the work that has been accomplished here, but 
you are greater still in this moment, — smiling in the 
midst of impending ruin. With you, Harriet, I am rich.” 

“And I am richer still.” 

The pair were closing their account with the world and, 
finding their earthly fortune gone, yet rejoiced in the pos- 
session of all that is worth having. 

“But everything can be cleared up, I hope, so no one 
will be the loser on your account?” she inquired hesitantly. 

“Yes, everything.” 

“I knew it,” she said, reassured of his staunch, unsullied 
honor, 


95 


Tense silence ensued. Then she spoke again. 

“Henry, dear, we are going to get along famously after 
the crash. You will secure a position elsewhere and we 
will take a wee bit of a cottage that I can take care of my- 
self. There we will live happy and contented in our little 
corner of the world, you and I and the boys. We will 
see more of each other there than here, where so many 
duties take us in different paths. 

“Well, yes, that will be fine — for us,” he interposed 
thoughtfully, “but what will become of our work here, 
and all these people? How can we leave these hundreds 
of workers in the lurch? Can we permit them to be 
driven from house and home, back to the poor quarters 
and slums of the cities, when the factories are closed?” 

She stood at the window again, surveying the industrial 
community which was her husband’s creation, in spite of 
what he said of her part in it. Her heart revolted at the 
thought of abandoning all this to ruin and decay. 

“No, Henry, we cannot leave them. That would be 
rank egotism and ingratitude. Till now we have merely 
worked; henceforth we must fight. We must struggle 
through at any cost. Look at the river down there. Where 
it flows through bottoms and meadows, it has no power. 
But let it force its way between cliffs and down precipices, 
and its strength is measured in thousands of horse powers. 
We shall struggle through by sheer force of will power 
and of love for the task, and when we are victorious, life 


shall mean more to us, and we shall more fully realize the 
power of love.” 

He looked at her in admiration, while her words steeled 
him against adversity and fired him for the future task. 
Her beauty and determination, her splendid zeal dazzled 
him as it had once dazzled her father. 

“Harriet, what is it that makes you so heroic and stout- 
hearted?” he asked in bewilderment. 

She smiled. 

“My love for you,” she answered simply, bending over 
to kiss him. 

Her courage had inspired him with new ambition. Her 
love aroused within him the will to fight and win, and 
he felt his strength as the strength of pent up waters. His 
heart throbbed violently as he spoke with a steely glint of 
determination in his eyes: 

“We shall win — you and I. My heart tells me that 
victory will be ours.” 



XVI. 

Death at the Threshold 

Henry Falconer closed his ledger with a sharp thud. 
The crisis was yet to come, but he would master the situa- 
tion. It had been a terrible struggle. He could well un- 
derstand how men who have to fight single-handed, with- 
out support, moral or physical, give up in despair and end 
their life with a bullet. He had lived for weeks and 
months under constant stress. His hair had turned gray 
at the temples, and his hand had lost its steadiness. At 
times everything had been at stake, his personal honor in 
the first place, for if the crash should come, would not the 
blame fall on him for not having averted it in time. The 
manager of the great works had not been able for some 
time to pass the cottage of any of his workingmen without 
casting an envious look into their care-free homes. 

Now that the strain was removed, he scarcely had time 
to relax before another ordeal confronted him. For after 
the great test of her courage was over, Harriet collapsed, 
body and soul, and fell helpless as a babe. 


Reclaimed. 4 . 


98 

The doctor was on his first visit, and Henry sat in the 
next room awaiting his finding. Others, too, were wait- 
ing. On the lawn outside was a little crowd of people 
from the shops who had come up to learn the condition 
of the Lady of the Castle. In the dining room sat the 
three sons silently waiting for the doctor to reappear. All 
Sunnycrest was in breathless expectation of the physician’s 
verdict. What would it be without its mistress? What 
would these boys be without their mother, this man with- 
out his mate? 

Her recent words of cheer and comfort came to him 
again in that moment : “Till now we have merely worked ; 
henceforth we must fight. We shall struggle through by 
sheer force of will power and of love for the task, and 
when we are victorious, life shall mean more to us, and 
we shall more fully realize the power of love.” They 
were a ray of light in the surrounding gloom. In that 
moment he knew that love is stronger than death. 

Finally the doctor, an old friend of the family, appeared. 

“You are calm; so you may go in to her. What may 
happen no one can tell. This night will decide. I will 
return later.” That was all the comfort the physician had 
to offer. 

Henry Falconer’s searching look was almost too much 
even for the tried nerves of the medical man. He took a 
step back. Did Henry surmise what he dared not tell 
him — that his wife was likely to die that very night ? 
Were the words meant for him or for the stricken man 


99 

himself, when he spoke as if quoting from memory: “I 
know that Harriet belongs to life and to love.” 

To Dr. Holmes these words had a strange sound. He 
looked at his friend in wonderment. 

“Yes,” he replied impressively. “You are right. Your 
wife belongs to the only true life and to that eternal love 
of which the present is but a faint reflection.” 

The doctor bowed to his friend and departed, glad to 
escape the duty of an explanation which was beyond his 
powers. He was well aware that many of his patients, 
when all hope of recovery was gone, could die in peace, 
strengthened by their unfaltering faith in the life to come. 
He had great admiration for Lady Falconer, but was never 
fully able to understand her; she seemed to move on a 
higher plane. Might it not be that she had begun to live 
that higher life even here below? If so, all the better for 
her, reasoned Dr. Holmes ; for he verily believed that she 
would not see another day. 

Returning from his call, Dr. Holmes made straight for 
the sideboard and poured up a big glass of strong wine, 
which he drained in one draft. That was his habit when 
he had been attending a very serious case. 

“Poor Henry,” he mumbled to himself as he tossed down 
a second glass. 

Henry himself did not resort to any such means of pal- 
liating his troubles. He was too much of a man to use 
makeshifts. He bravely faced his sorrows to fight them 
down. 


IOO 


He entered the sickroom and sat down at the bedside. 
There was now little left of his wife’s beauty and strength. 
Where she now lay with closed eyes and gaunt features, 
she was merely one of the mass of humanity who had sank 
under the too heavy burden laid upon her. 

She opened her eyes and looked at him with the deep 
look of one who believes in life and in love. In an instant 
he dismissed his fears, for how could any one look like 
that, if life’s flame was flickering in the socket and the 
blood was growing cold. With stout heart he still held 
to his belief that with her firm faith in life and her all- 
absorbing affection for him she could not die and leave 
him. 

While he was still looking into her eyes, the spark of 
life and love seemed to die out of them, leaving nothing 
but a shadow. He shrank back, and a chill permeated his 
whole being. 

“Henry, — Henry, why do you go away? Don’t leave 
me alone,” she pleaded pitifully. 

“Dearest, I am here with you ; I am not going,” he re- 
assured her. He took her cold hand and pressed it between 
his own to make her feel his presence, but still she pleaded 
in a feeble, childlike voice: 

“Don’t leave me, Henry, — please don’t.” 

He was almost paralyzed with dismay and found not a 
word to say to soothe her fears. It was not he that was 
going, but at this moment he felt as though she was going 
away, passing into the great unsearchable gloom and leav- 
ing him alone in a starless, hopeless void. 


IOI 


“Henry, hold me fast,” she begged. “Hold my hands, 
— I cannot go now, — I cannot leave you.” 

He feels that her hold on life is slipping, and she no 
longer belongs to him. But he must try to give her such 
comfort as he is capable of. 

“Be calm, dearest, — and take this,” he says, offering 
her a drop or two of a poison left by the doctor to be used 
in “extreme need.” To him it was like consigning her to 
death. 

The poison acts, deadening pain and calming the nerves, 
throwing her very soul into a stupor, it seems. Breathing 
is easier, the choking of the throat and the pressure on the 
chest being relieved. Once again she is able to smile, 
though faintly and artificially, and to speak. 

“Forgive me, dearest, for a moment of weakness,” she 
said in a whisper. “Forgive me for doubting the power 
of life and of love. I know now that if I go away to rest 
it will be only to wake up with new strength in the other 
world. Besides, I would still live for you and the children 
in the work that our love made possible.” 

Her husband was mute in his distraction. It was re- 
volting to think that medical means should be required to 
give her back faith in that which she had always be- 
lieved in. 

“Henry,” she continued, “now I understand better than 
ever before the meaning of the words, ‘Love never faileth, ’ 
for when we pass away, the works of love remain, and we 
live on, here on earth, though departed hence. Love never 
faileth, for love is of God,” 


102 


Henry watched as a veil seemed to fall over her eyes 
and her mind began to wander. At length she closed her 
eyes and fell into a light slumber. He sat at her side with 
face hidden in his hands. Despair was in his heart. Faith 
— love, — all was a delusion. 

Suddenly a hand touched his shoulder, and the doctor 
stood beside him. 

“She is sleeping,” he said. “Will you step out with me 
a moment.” 

Henry followed him from the room. 

“Here, have a glass or two of this. You need a bracer 
to-night. Under such a strain one must not stand too 
stubbornly on principle.” 

With these words the physician gently patted his shoul- 
der and poured out a glass of ardent liquor. Half dis- 
traught, Henry took the glass and was about to put it to 
his lips when he suddenly stopped short. A voice within 
him spoke: “Drink, Henry! Drink, and befog your brains; 
then go in to your wife and see her die. This is only the 
beginning. You will do worse things than that, Henry 
Falconer, now that you have lost faith in everything.’* 

He set down the glass — he could not drink that night. 
The doctor sought to argue him into it. 

“No; — don’t ask me; — I simply can’t,” he stuttered 
in a forced, unnatural tone.” 

“Queer chap, that,” muttered the doctor to himself, 
slightly offended, yet not without admiration for the man’s 
force of character. When he saw Henry pass him and 


103 


disappear into the sickroom with bowed head and an un- 
canny expression in his face rarely seen in persons while 
in possession of their reason, the doctor drew the conclu- 
sion not unnatural to a drink-befuddled brain that a mir- 
acle must transpire that night, or Henry Falconer would 
turn insane. And although a man who believed in nothing 
that could not be explained and to whom there was no 
world beyond this visible one, Dr. Holmes persistently 
hoped for a miracle. 

Henry found his wife still asleep'. Dropping quietly 
down on a chair at the bedside, he sat motionless for a long 
time, neither seeing nor hearing those who came and went. 

“Henry, — my son !” 

It was her father, the venerable parson, who stood be- 
side him, tall though bowed with grief, mild though 
solemn, and most remarkably calm. 

“How is it with you, my boy?” he asked. 

Henry did not reply. His thoughts were all for Har- 
riet, and he wondered why the father of a dying daughter 
should be thinking of him just then. 

The old parson looked concernedly at him, then at 
Harriet, and there was a bright, far-seeing look in his kind 
gray eyes. He had penetrated so far into the mysteries 
of the other world, the world of faith, that he could see 
light where others saw nothing but darkness. Not that 
he was untouched by human misery, and immune to sor- 
row, for his sympathies were most profound ; but he knew 
how little human power avails in time of need and put 
implicit trust in the unseen Comforter. 


104 

Slowly and feelingly he repeated the words of the Sav- 
iour: “This sickness is not unto death, but for the glory 
of God, that the Son of God may be glorified thereby.” 

A ray of hope kindled in Henry’s eyes and died as 
quickly. 

“Yes, father, the Bible has it that way, and you who 
live in a different world from mine hold to that, of course. 
But to me that is nothing but words — words. Besides, 
the Bible makes no secret of the fact that the man, whose 
sickness was not unto death, actually died. Let us be 
honest, as the Bible is on this point.” 

The dean was not taken aback by Henry’s bitter retort. 

“Yes, Lazarus died, that is true, but he rose again,” he 
answered mildly. 

“Father,” pleaded Henry Falconer with a child’s meek- 
ness, “father, give me back my faith in life, my trust in 
love, or I cannot endure this! We had that faith and 
trust, Harriet and I. It was the great thing in our life, 
it was power, riches, happiness. Now she is dying, — she 
is dead, lost to me already, — and with her faith is gone. 
It is as though we — she and I — had never lived. — 
Father (his voive quavered in agony) — father, save me, 
for my children’s sake.” 

On the verge of despair the stricken man knelt before 
the old parson, embracing his knees in supplication. 

Another than Dean Malm might have protested that 
we must not pray to any mortal man, helpless as ourselves ; 
but the old divine realized that it was not to him that 


105 

Henry directed his prayer, but to that power which he 
represented. 

A solemn moment of silence, then the parson spoke : 

“The time and place may seem peculiar to us, but it is 
God’s chosen time and place. At the very gate of death 
I must interpret to you the mysteries of life and faith. 
Be assured, my son, that this sickness is not unto death, 
though to human eyes it may so appear. You say that 
Lazarus died ; — true, but only in order that he might live 
again. You say it seems as if you had never lived; that 
is too true, for you are as dead spiritually as Lazarus was 
bodily when laid in his tomb. But death is life’s gateway. 
We know not what life is, till we have tasted of death’s 
bitter cup.” 

Wonderful paradoxes, these. “Words, words,” Henry 
Falconer would have called them, had it not dawned upon 
him, while the old man spoke, that this doubtless explained 
the great change that had come over his own life, — the 
miracle of being reborn of the Spirit. 

The question of Nicodemus, “How can a man be born 
when he is old,” was in Henry’s mind, and he inquired : 

“Father, by what power did you become a regenerated 
man?” 

“By faith in Him who said: ‘I am the resurrection and 
the life; he that believeth on me though he die, yet shall 
he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth on me shall 
never die.’ ” 

Profoundly solemn sounded these divine words, repeated 


io6 

by a believing father at the bedside of his dying daughter. 
They carried enthusiasm and power, but more of convic- 
tion, the thing Henry Falconer most needed in this hour 
of trial. He realized fully that all things earthly were 
vain and perishable; all was dust and would sooner or 
later return to dust ; there was nothing in heaven or earth 
to put faith in — except possibly in Him who at the por- 
tals of death long ago spoke those words, the only true 
gospel of life. 

Both men sat beside the deathbed, the elder with young, 
vitalizing hope in his heart, the younger distraught with 
doubt. Meanwhile Harriet slept a sleep very like death. 

Henry Falconer was on the border line between the 
temporal and the eternal world. He saw dimly a beam 
of supernal light penetrate the gloom of temporal existence, 
yet his whole mind was on his dying wife, and his back, 
as it were, was turned in the direction whence that light 
issued. One thing had become clear to him — should 
Harriet survive, then, and only then, he would recognize 
the Man of Nazareth as the master of life and death, yea, 
the resurrection and the life. 




XVII. 

The Coming of Little Hans 

Harriet did survive. The two fought their way through, 
— she through the physical, he through the spiritual crisis. 
The invalid’s strength returned, however, by very slow 
degrees, so imperceptibly, indeed, that Henry at times 
despaired of any improvement. When she was well enough 
to be moved, she was carried daily into the sitting room, 
where she reclined on a couch day after day, present in 
body but peculiarly absent in mind. 

Little by little things readjusted themselves to former 
conditions outwardly; but to Henry it seemed as though 
the mental contact between himself and Harriet was not 
properly restored. He began to fear that the few drops 
of poison administered in a critical moment might have 
had a baneful effect on her mental powers. She never 
spoke of her dreadful inner struggles that night and never 
with one word referred to that hour when doubt obscured 
the things which she held most precious in life. 


io8 

Henry had been confronted with the terrors of death, 
but not only that, he had also seen a glimpse of the glory 
of Him who is the resurrection and the life. He went 
often to the parson for comfort, feeling that his present 
position was untenable, his life void and inadequate, yet 
his thoughts centered on Harriet, and he sought from the 
dean very much the same kind of comfort that she had 
been wont to give. 

The experienced divine understood him better than he 
knew himself. He might have advised him in the words 
of the Master, “If thou wouldest be perfect, go, sell that 
which thou hast, and give to the poor, and come, follow 
me,” but he knew that what he had he could not sell with- 
out great hardship to many. It was not worldly goods, — 
it was Harriet who stood in his way, and her life having 
been spared, the devout father firmly believed she would 
be the first to enter upon the new life. 

Henry’s visits to the parsonage grew less frequent, and 
ultimately ceased. The memory of past trials faded before 
the cares of the present. He was waiting for his wife’s 
complete recovery, hoping that this would restore the 
beauty and felicity of their home life. He was setting 
much store by the home-coming of the boys for Christmas 
as a revivifying element. 

Christmas vacation brought the boys home, and with 
them the spirit of youth and enthusiasm entered the house 
anew. The weather was severe, and many a nose and 
ear was nipped by frost, but this had no terror for the 


log 


youngsters. The irksome confinement of the long fall 
term at school made every moment of freedom doubly 
precious, and now was their time to make the most of the 
opportunity for true winter sports. There was excellent 
coasting from the top of the hill all the way down to the 
village. On their bobsled they shot down the incline num- 
berless times, always with jubilant cheers, and every time 
they gained the crown of the hill, tugging and puffing, 
there was another hearty cheer in store for the mother 
watching them from her window. The consciousness that 
her eyes were on them, proudly following their every 
movement, added zest to their sport. 

At that moment Harriet thought herself the happiest 
and richest of mothers. The presence of her bright-eyed, 
sturdy boys had dispelled the melancholy gloom that still 
lingered over the mind of the convalescent. 

She went in to Henry, who sat bending over his ac- 
counts. 

“Come, let me show you something,” she said, taking 
him by the arm and leading him over to the window. 
“Have you ever seen a prettier sight?” she pursued, and 
as they watched the sport of their boys on the hillside, old 
memories came back, one by one, and life seemed to take 
on brightness and beauty anew. 

“Yes, once,” he answered reminiscently, kissing her ten- 
derly, as if welcoming back the strong, cheerful, buoyant 
Harriet of former days. Life and love again beamed from 
her deep eyes, in fulfillment of her own prediction, made 


no 


before the great struggle, — “We will then have a deeper 
knowledge of life and know more fully what a power 
love is.” 

A season of great domestic happiness followed, raised 
to a high pitch by the ebullient spirit of the boys. Henry 
' Falconer played with new inspiration to the guests who 
came up evening after evening to listen, and to enjoy the 
unbounded hospitality of the house. Mistress Harriet’s 
eyes beamed with a new light. 

* * * 

Not many months later, it was an open secret that a 
little stranger was expected at Sunnycrest. If the fact 
had been published in the local paper it could not have 
been more widely known. Every morning people would 
look up the hill too see if the flag was hoisted — the sign 
of arrival. The expected child was the center of interest 
long before its birth, as it was to be the object of the col- 
lective affection of the community ever after. 

One spring day, when nature was coming to life again, 
and the air was filled with the jubilant warble of returned 
song-birds, the little guest, a tiny boy, made his appearance 
at Sunnycrest. His eyes were those of his mother, bright, 
sunshiny eyes, in which a shadow of gloom which was to 
be ever a mystery to the mother had not yet appeared. 
The father had been wishing for a daughter, his instinct 
yearning for some weaker being to foster and protect, and 
although disappointed in this, yet his wish came true in 
an unlooked for manner, in that the child, who was named 


Ill 


after his grandfather and came to be affectionately called 
Little Hans by all, was puny and delicate enough to make 
a special appeal to the parental heart. The child, which 
made so great a demand on his parents, also grew to be 
the strongest link in the chain that united them, and his 
coming measurably deepened their mutual regard and in- 
creased their domestic felicity. 

When the old parson was confronted with the newborn 
grandson, he looked long and thoughtfully at the bit of 
humanity, as if seeing something about the child that had 
escaped the notice of all others. 

“How do you like our baby, father?” asked Harriet 
when the old man remained silent. 

Then, looking into the mother’s radiant face, he said 
impressively: “This child will be a source of much sorrow 
to you, Harriet, but of still greater joy. Ille faciet — he 
shall do it. ” 

A few moments later the parson took his leave, and 
was driven to his home by Henry. Short as was the trip, 
it took quite a while, for Dean Malm wanted to greet 
and speak to every one they met and have a look at every- 
thing they passed by. 

That evening there was mourning at Sunnycrest, in the 
village, and throughout the parish. Dean Malm had 
passed peacefully away, falling asleep in the Lord while 
stooping over his study desk as in meditation. Before him 
was an unfinished letter to his son Axel, beginning thus: 

“Now lettest thou thy servant depart, Lord, 


1 12 


According to thy word in peace” .... 

Here his pen had dropped' from his hand, leaving these 
words of the righteous Simeon as a last message. 

A few days later a funeral procession passed from the 
parsonage to the churchyard, the entire congregation, to- 
gether with Axel and Harriet, and Henry Falconer with 
his sons, following the reverend old pastor to his last 
resting place. — 

The next morning Axel Malm was to leave by an early 
train. When he stepped out on the platform in the misty 
morning air a tall, thickset man was there ahead of him. 

“May I have a word with Mr. Malm?” he asked after 
the exchange of greetings. They walked a few paces aside. 

“You must study for the ministry, my friend,” said the 
man ; “that was the wish of your father. And that is our 
wish, too, for we want a Malm in our parsonage and in 
our pulpit.” 

Axel was deeply moved. He knew now that his fa- 
ther’s labors had not been in vain. 

“I am studying divinity now,” said Axel after a pause. 
“But I cannot hope to fill my father’s place. I thank you 
for your kindness, just the same. At any rate you people 
have a Malm at Sunnycrest — don’t forget that.” 

“Yes, I know, — the engineer and his wife. They 
teach us how to work. But we want some one to teach 
us how to live. That you must do.” 

The tall man looked cordially into Axel’s eyes as he 
spoke, then shook his hand warmly, tipped his cap slightly, 


and went his way. But his words sank deep into Axel’s 
mind, as expressing, through the mouth of another, the 
last will of his father. 

Now that the parson’s household was dissolved, May 
Woods, the ward brought there from the moor farm, was 
transferred to Sunnycrest to be nursery maid for Little 
Hans. 



XVIII. 

The Little Invalid 

Many were the bright dreams of their future that Har- 
riet had dreamt by the cradle of her baby boys. The 
mother’s eye had foreseen in them high ambitions to be 
crowned with great accomplishments. Her hand had 
guided them in fancied crusades and explorations long be- 
fore they were able to stand on their own legs. 

But in the case of Little Hans her expectations were 
raised to still greater heights. She bore within her a very 
clear presentiment that this boy was to be something more 
to her than all the rest. Her motherly instinct had told 
her so before he was born, and now the idea had taken 
the form of unquestioned certitude. 

Ille faciet — what did her father mean that her last 
born was to accomplish ? Why did she not ask him ? Did 
he intimate his wish that he should follow in his own 
footsteps by entering the ministry and possibly succeed him 
in his own pulpit? 


H5 

To this she had positive objections. Religion was noth- 
ing to her ; she felt no need of it herself, and did not 
believe that any intelligent person needed it. For her fa- 
ther’s sake she had attended church regularly, but merely 
as a matter of form, and after her father’s death her 
church-going ceased. She was completely satisfied with 
the world in which she was now living, and had no need 
of knowing or preparing for any other. 

Henry, too, had an extraordinary affection for the 
youngest son. A room was set aside for Little Hans when 
he reached two years of age. That became the sanctuary 
of the home. It was situated between the parents’ chamber 
and the living room, a cheerful, sunlit room all in white 
and kept scrupulously clean. Here the parents would 
spend hours with the lad, in play or instruction here they 
would sit dreaming proud dreams of his future. Here, 
too, Little Hans was supreme. Everything was done ac- 
cording to his wishes, from the time that he had a will of 
his own, and his commands were instantly obeyed. From 
his limited realm the little autocrat ruled Sunnycrest abso- 
lutely, and Sunnycrest ruled the entire district. 

Little Hans was unconscious of his power. Not strong 
enough to be up except for short intervals, the puny mon- 
arch spent most of the time in bed. When he did leave 
his bed it was usually exchanged for his mother’s lap, or 
the arms of his father, who took turns with May, the 
nursery maid, in carrying him about the house. The fond 
hopes of the parents for an improvement in the child’s 


ii6 

health were not realized. Despite all the care and cod- 
dling, the little body grew still more frail, the thin, pale 
face grew smaller, the bright eyes with the mysterious 
shadows in them grew still more dark, contrasting weirdly 
with the sickly white countenance. 

Such was Litttle Hans to look at. But inwardly he 
was developing meanwhile at a pace which ought to have 
told the parents that their baby boy would not stay with 
them long. True, all their boys were uncommonly gifted, 
but the elder sons were not to be compared with Little 
Hans in that respect. 

On his sixth birthday the boy received a comfortable 
little chair as a present from his father. He was greatly 
delighted with the gift, and for the rest of the day could 
hardly be induced to leave it. 

“It’s almost like sitting in mama’s lap,” he commented 
oldly. And no chair could have been given higher praise. 

Little Hans began to ask questions, and when he learnt 
that some living tree had had to be cut down to provide 
material for his little chair his joy was subdued, and 
tears came into his eyes. His father was obliged to dispel 
his childish grief by playing the boys’ favorite melodies 
on the piano. Harriet was moved to tears by the tender 
sentimentality of her boy, but he did not notice it, his 
attention being wholly absorbed by the music. 

When Henry ceased playing, Little Hans came over to 
him. 

“Papa, who taught you how to play?” he asked. Hen- 


H7 

ry Falconer had had a number of teachers, but he felt 
that a mere mention of their names would not have an- 
swered the boy’s question. So he replied : 

“Just now it was you that taught me how.” 

The lad looked at his father questioningly. His ex- 
pression was not of doubt, and yet not of confidence. 

“Then I can play, too, can’t I, papa?” he argued. 

Papa was trapped by his own reasoning. 

“Well, why not? Suppose you try.” 

Henry Falconer became so interested in learning what 
musical talent the lad might have that the forgot the risk 
of letting him try and the disappointment that a failure 
would bring. 

Against his wife’s protest he carried the boy over to the 
instrument and seated him before the keyboard. But no 
sooner had he left him there than he saw his mistake. 
When the puny form sank limply together on the chair, 
he hastened to pick him up before he had struck a note, 
this to spare him the disappointment that he himself al- 
ready felt. 

The little invalid threw both arms about his father’s 
neck and wept. 

“Papa, I will never, never be able to play, though I can 
hear music within me any time,” he complained faintly, 
with tears in his eyes. 

His father placed him in a sofa, wiping his tears and 
seeking to cheer him by fondly stroking his cheek. 

“Now, don’t cry, Little Hans,” he said tenderly. “You 


1 18 

must understand that none of us, not even the greatest mu- 
sicians, are able to play the finest melodies they hear in 
their own fancy.” 

“What becomes of them, then?” 

“That I can’t say. Perhaps they are not entirely lost, 
but reproduced in some other way. Your mother, for 
instance, never plays the piano, as you know; still what- 
ever she does seems like sweet tones of a song, and wher- 
ever she goes people look at her as if they were listening 
to charming music.” 

“How can that be?” inquired the lad thoughtfully, his 
face brightening at the reply. 

“It comes from the great love for you and me and 
your brothers and for all the people.” 

This gave Little Hans so much to ponder on that he 
forgot to ask any more questions. When May came in 
and suggested that he take a rest, he gladly complied. 

Had Dean Malm been living, Henry would have sought 
him that moment; now he sought his grave instead. But 
the mute stone had no reply to the questions that pleaded 
for an answer. 

It was a stormy day. Henry buttoned his overcoat 
tightly and, with hands tucked into the pockets, braved 
the fierce wind unflinchingly. Conscious of his robust 
vitality, he extended his walk for several miles into the 
country, enjoying the physical struggle with the elements. 
He returned home with ruddy face and an air of deter- 
mination about him which told Harriet that he had 
reached some important decision. 


A few days later Henry Falconer and his wife left for 
Stockholm with their youngest son. His state of health 
was such that a specialist had to be consulted. 

The renowned physician made his diagnosis and, calling 
the father into his private office, took him into his con- 
fidence. 

“I can do nothing,” he said frankly. “The lad may live 
for months, perhaps for years, but there is no help for 
him.” 

The father refused to accept the verdict of science. 

“Doctor, I am a man of means. Name any amount you 
please for your services, but make my boy well,” he im- 
plored. 

The noted physician merely shook his head. 

“My dear Mr. Falconer,” he said feelingly, “you have 
my heartfelt sympathy, but for your boy I can do nothing 
*— positively nothing.” 

With bent head and in the attitude of a convicted man, 
Henry Falconer heard the verdict pronounced over his 
beloved Little Hans. 

But when he rejoined Harriet and the boy he bore his 
head resolutely. 

“We are going to Copenhagen to-morrow,” he said 
when they reached the hotel. 

His wife said nothing, but Little Hans inquired in 
anxious tones: 

“Is it very far, papa?” 

“Not very, my boy. You go to sleep in Stockholm on 


120 


the night train and wake up in Copenhagen the next morn- 
ing.” 

This did not satisfy the boy. 

“I am so tired, papa,” said he. “I can’t travel any far- 
ther. I want to go home.” 

It was so decided. Not that the father gave up hope 
of relief, for had not the doctor spoken of months and 
years? They could go to the Danish capital later, but 
go they must, for there help was surely to be found. On 
that point Henry was so positive that Harriet came to 
believe it too. 




XIX. 

An Angel in the House 

They returned home with heavy hearts. Day by day 
the pressure on their minds increased, until their throats 
choked with despair. 

Henry Falconer worked as never before. The nervous 
restlessness that had seized him soon affected his wife also. 
When she was with her sick boy, a thousand duties seemed 
to call her away, and away from him, she had no peace 
until she was again by his side. 

Fortunately, May remained perfectly calm. Little 
Hans was never so contented as when she sat talking with 
him. She spoke so low that no one else could hear, and 
none inquired into the subject of their conservation. 

One day in the fall Harriet in passing his room over- 
heard Little Hans complaining to his father — 

“Papa, must I always lie abed like this? Can’t I ever, 
ever get up?” 


- 122 


She was glad that the boy had never put that question 
to her, and she was on the point of running away so as not 
to hear the father’s reply. But she remained and listened, 
steadying her faint frame against a chair. This is what 
she heard: 

“No, no, my lad, you will get well some day, maybe 
very soon. Now don’t cry, Hans. You used to be such 
a little man. — There, that’s a brave boy!” 

The boy braced up a bit at this, but soon relapsed. 

“I suppose it’s only the big boys that are ‘brave little 
men’,” he reflected sadly. They can do anything, but I 
can’t even try.” 

“My boy, don’t say that,” the father protested, “they 
are not the only ones. It is no great proof of manliness 
to do things when one is strong and able. I think you 
much more brave and manly to lie here and bear your 
sickness so patiently and without a word of complaint.” 

The parent made the most of the argument, and it set 
the boy to thinking. He was determined to bear up 
bravely for a time, but it could not be for ever. So the 
question came again: 

“Yes, papa, but how long must I lie here this way?” 

Henry had evaded it before; would he be able to do so 
again, Harriet wondered, where she stood listening still. 

“Till you get stronger, my boy.” 

“When will that be?” the lad pursued, determined not 
to be put off. 

For a moment Henry Falconer searched his mind for the 


123 

right words. His wife was keenly alert to know whether 
her husband actually believed in their child’s recovery, a 
point on which he had always avoided committing him- 
self. 

The answer came at length. It was simply this: 

“When God wills it.” 

Henry Falconer speaking of God! It was a great sur- 
prise to Harriet. Seldom had that word passed his lips 
in discussion or every-day conversation, never in such a 
connection. 

Little Hans, too, was very much surprised. 

“God — do you know anything about Him , papa ?” he 
asked. “You never spoke of Him to me, nor has mama.” 

“Now think, Hans, — has no one ever mentioned God 
to you?” 

“Oh, yes, May has,” the boy owned. “She used to tell 
me to pray to God when I have pains, and he would make 
me well. But I tell her there’s no one that can make me 
well but a doctor in Copenhagen, because papa and mama 
have told me so, and they know better than she does.” 

“Are you sure they do?” 

“Yes, because all she knows is what she reads in one 
book. But you have a great many books to learn from. 
May’s book is only a story-book, I guess.” 

By now Little Hans had forgotten his first question and 
his father did all he could to lead him on in his new line 
of thought. 

“Well, what all does May have to tell you?” he 
prompted. 


124 


“Oh, lots and lots of things. She has a great big story- 
book, and a fine one too — finer and bigger than any that 
the boys have. I can’t tell you all there is in it, for I 
forget so many things when the pains come. But I’ll tell 
you, papa — he speaks in a half-whisper — when it hurts 
the worst, I think of some of May’s stories, and that 
helps.” 

The mother could no longer remain outside. She en- 
tered the room and joined the two. 

“Mama, I knew all the while that you were out there,” 
said the boy with a smile. 

She nodded to Henry, and after wrapping the child in 
a blanket, took him in her lap. 

“Now, tell us some of May’s stories,” said she. 

The boy proceeded to tell his father and mother what 
they should have told him long ago. The stories from 
“May’s story-book,” which was none other than a copy 
of the Holy Bible, his childish fancy wrought into fantas- 
tic forms, yet they were easily recognizable as being from 
Holy Writ. He made his parents see through his own 
childish eyes the city eternal with its streets of gold, the 
innumerable chorus of angels singing hosannas before the 
throne of God. In the heaven conceived of by the child’s 
mind all had their musical instruments, and all could play 
even the sublimest melodies that came to them in thoughts 
or dreams. And in this heaven no one was sick or tired, 
and no one was too small to be there. It was a land of 
wonder and mystery, yet as real to the mind of Little 
Hans as the world in which he was now living. 


125 


The little invalid spoke at first rapidly, eagerly; then 
slowly and with subdued enthusiasm, until his eyes closed 
and he fell asleep with his head pillowed on his mother’s 
breast. 

For Harriet and Henry Falconer this temporal world 
had until now been quite enough. Their eyes had never 
sought the far coast of that land of bliss beyond the blue 
ocean of ethereal space. Suddenly their own child present- 
ed that eternal paradise to their vision as the goal of his 
hopes, the scene of a life better than this, a wished for 
haven of joy and peace the very thought of which allayed 
his bodily pains. Thus the heaven of the child’s faith 
became real for the first time to his father and mother, the 
first object of their dawning faith in things unseen. 

This changed many things in the lives of Henry and 
Harriet, who hitherto had believed only in the “things 
that are seen.” When they began to believe in a heaven 
for their little boy they had unknowingly taken the first 
step in the path of faith. 

“There is an angel in the house,” the servants confided 
to one another, adding, “God bless Little Hans.” 

And God did bless him. The little invalid was always 
patient and cheerful, and as it was, his influence was 
greater by far than if he had been healthy and strong. No 
one spoke aloud when Little Hans had a moment’s sleep, 
and any one was pleased to sit at the bedside and help 
him while away the tedious hours. 

No one left the sick-room without some new idea or 


126 


point of view suggested by the boy, who in his quiet way 
preached more powerfully from his sick-bed than many a 
pastor from his pulpit. 

But his cheeks grew ever paler, his eyes more dark and 
sunken, and his heart fluttered feverishly. 

Father and mother grew paler, too, and the older boys 
dampened their youthful ardor and grew silent and 
thoughtful. Olov would write little verses to amuse the 
poor little fellow, and Gustav played his best pieces for 
Hans upon his slightest suggestion. 

Through long days and nights Harriet and Henry took 
turns at watching by the bedside while life and death 
struggled for the possession of their son. The battle was 
as decisive for them as for him. For if Little Hans, the 
angel of their home, should depart, what would become 
of them? They dared not follow out the thought. 

Harriet recalled how this child had come to her as a 
harbinger of a new life, a messenger of that love which 
had been the greatest thing in her past life, and he had 
become dearer to her than any of the other sons, although 
she despaired of his ever amounting to anything, common- 
ly speaking. 

To Henry, Little Hans was a direct gift from Him 
out of whose hand Harriet had been given back to him 
in a dark hour. He had come as an earnest of earthly af- 
fection, but also as a messenger from the Ruler of life and 
death to tell of His divine love and awaken faith out of 
dark despair. 



XX. 

The Crisis 

One night in the spring came the crucial test for the 
parental hearts. The weather was mild, and a window 
in the sick-room was left open. The moonlight cast a 
weird sheen over the park, accentuating the solemn still- 
ness that reigned about the solitary mansion on the hill. 
All seemed to know as by some premonition that a struggle 
was to come that night, a struggle which might be the last 
for Little Hans, crowning the patient sufferer with the 
halo of martyrdom. 

Father and mother both knew it, and dreaded the 
thought of it. The little hero had fought bravely and 
long for his crown, and it would be well indeed with him, 
if he should go to his eternal rest; but, alas, how dark, 
how empty life would be to those left behind ! 

It was hardest for the mother, who was attached to her 
child with numberless bonds known only to herself. With 
her great fear of death, she nevertheless, seeing the all- 
conquerer approaching, would have gladly given her own 
life to preserve that of her boy. 


128 


Henry fell asleep, exhausted as he was by many days 
and nights of anxious watching, but Harriet remained on 
guard at the boy’s bedside. 

“Little Hans,” she whispered to him when she saw that 
he was lying calmly awake, “you must not die. Your 
mother will die instead.” 

He believed her. It is so easy to believe that which one 
ardently wishes to come true. And Little Hans now actu- 
ally thought it possible for his mother to assume those 
pains and sufferings of which he was so inexpressibly 
weary. 

“Mother, that is very kind of you,” he said with a 
grateful smile. 

But the next moment his eyes were clouded. “Mother, 
have you, too, seen the city with streets of gold, and the 
land where there is no suffering?” 

She would have answered yes, if only to remove that 
cloud of doubt, but could not. If she had tried, she 
knew the boy would have detected the deception. 

“I can imagine them,” she said, knowing that this was 
far from what the boy meant ; yet it was also far from her 
former view of life. 

Little Hans was silent, as if pondering over his mother’s 
words. 

“I had better die and go there first, mother dear,” he 
said. “I know better about all those things. Maybe you 
wouldn’t feel at home up there.” 

She had no answer. Possibly she would not. 


129 

“But are you quite sure you will feel at home there?” 
she asked in return, her mother’s heart throbbing violently 
as she awaited the reply. 

Little Hans silently struggled to formulate a clear an- 
swer. He was only seven years old, but his sickness and 
isolation had matured his mind more than is usual in a 
child. 

“Mother,” said he gently, “do you remember the time 
when I was just a little boy? Then when I was very sick 
I would not let you leave me. It never seemed to hurt 
quite so bad when I could sit in your lap.” 

He paused for a moment, as if speaking those few words 
had exceeded his powers. Meanwhile his mother’s heart 
throbbed violently; she remembered it so well. 

“But while I sat in your lap, mother,” he went on, “the 
other boys would come and claim you too, and besides, 
father came and talked with you for hours and hours, I 
thought. I wanted you all to myself, but I could not keep 
j^ou. Though I sat in your lap, you were so far away.” 

His words gave a pang of agony to the mother’s heart. 
This child who had always been the darling of her heart, 
how could he say that? Yet, it must be so, it could not 
be otherwise. Her life had been one of outward activity ; 
she had been too much occupied with externals to live the 
internal life, to acquaint herself with the soul-life of her 
boy, whose trend was away from temporal things toward 
the eternal. 

Now she broke violently into tears, bitter tears of regret 


Reclaimed. 5. 


130 


for the poverty of her life — so material, so superficial, 
so meaningless. 

Meanwhile Little Hans lay upon his bed of pain, puz- 
zled how to proceed without rending his mother’s heart. 

“I never cried,” he went on at length. “Father said, 
if I didn’t cry, I’d be a real little man, just like my 
brothers. But I felt so very, very lonesome. Then May 
came to our house ” 

He paused again. His mother was still sobbing. Why 
did he say that May came, she wondered, for the girl had 
been in the house from his infancy. 

He seemed to read her thoughts, for he said, “Mother, 
dear little mother, I love you much more than I do May. 
It is not so much herself as her Friend that I love.” 

His mother was astonished. 

“My dear, wdiat do you know about May’s friends?” 
she asked. 

“Why, mother, it’s her Friend that loves the little chil- 
dren so; it’s He that built the wonderful city that you’ve 
seen with your mind’s eye.” 

The mother sat silent. 

“And you must love Him too,” urged the child. “Now 
I think more of Him than I do of His Holy City and its 
beautiful surroundings. Mother, are you sorry that I love 
Him so?” 

“No, my boy, not at all,” said she. 

Then a smile glinted in the eyes of the boy, and he came 
to the point to which his words had led up. 


“Then,” said she, “you would not be sorry should my 
Friend come soon, very soon, and take me away from 
you?” 

“No, no, my dear,” faltered the mother. 

His dark eyes peered sharply into hers as if sounding the 
depth of her very -soul. Did he know what those words 
cost her ? That the sword was even now piercing her soul ? 

But when those words had passed her lips a great calm 
fell upon her struggling soul. The eves of the boy were 
filled with tears, but there was a smile in his pallid lips. 

“Mother — mother,” said he with a show of good cheer, 
“then my Friend must be yours too.” 

One experience followed so close upon another, and 
Harriet was passing from darkness to twilight, and thence 
into the clear light so rapidly that she hardly knew at 
this moment what she did and what she did not believe. 
She was conscious of but one desire — to love that Friend, 
Him Who had everything to give, and without whom her 
life was, in fact, as empty and poor as she had thought it 
full and rich. 

In her hesitancy the voice failed her, but she bowed her 
head in answer. 

The next moment the mother was on her knees at the 
bedside, her lips fervently pressed upon the cold forehead 
of the boy, who in turn weakly clasped his arms about her 
neck. 

“Mother, oh mother!” he whispered in such ecstasy as 
carried her too, for the moment, beyond the world of 


132 


material things. Everything about her was blotted out 
before her bodily eyes; time and space vanished. These 
two beings were no longer herself and her sick child — 
but spirits relieved of mortal shackles, peering beyond the 
curtain raised for the nonce upon the world unseen. They 
seemd to her like two flowers, now in bloom, gone to- 
morrow, — thistle downs wafted on the breeze, — atoms 
of dust borne away into a world of infinity, — two flicker- 
ing candle-flames that any gilst might put out. And yet, 
there was something about these tw T o — life, pow T er, an 
inextinguishable, deathless something — that was no more 
a part of their physical selves than their bodies were part 
and parcel of the apparel. It was that something which 
triumphs over death, the eternal within the perishable, 
which bore up her poor boy in his dying hours; that, too, 
which quickened her faint spirit into new life in the very 
moment when earthy existence held no charm and mortal 
bonds seemed dissolved. 

Harriet had had many profound experiences of the inner 
life which she was unable to define. They all now seemed 
to point one way, to be but premonitions of this one su- 
preme moment in life when, down in the dark vale of 
grief and affliction, she met — God. 

Little Hans fell into a slumber which released his arms 
from his mother’s neck, softly, imperceptibly. All the 
while she was in another world, prostrate at the feet of the 
Great Friend whom her boy had found and to whom he 
had led her. 


133 


Henry had fallen asleep in his chair, utterly exhausted 
in body and mind. When he opened his eyes and found 
his wife on her knees and motionless at the bedside, he was 
instantly aroused. “She is dead — Harriet is dead,” was 
the thought that flashed through his mind. And with her 
all was lost, that was the stark, dismal certainty before 
which his own soul almost died within him that instant. 

Rising to his feet, he reverently approached the bedside. 
He raised her upon his arms, — how strong he was to 
carry so lightly this grand, queenly woman, he commented 
inwardly as with an expression of infinite tenderness he 
carried her limp form to a couch in the same room. 

When he laid her gently down consciousness returned 
and the flame of life which seemed extinct burned again. 
She lay entirely still as he spread a blanket over her, and 
it was but slowly and with an effort that she regained con- 
tact with the material world. 

“Thank you, Henry,” she said almost inaudibly, and 
not until she heard her own voice did she fully recover her 
physical senses. 

Henry’s wan face grew paler still as with a quick im- 
pulse he seized her hand. 

“You live?" he exclaimed as if doubting his own eyes 
and ears. 

“Yes — Henry — I live,” was all she could say. 

It was indeed a peculiar kind of life. There lay her 
son reduced to the mere semblance of life. There stood 
her husband, near, yet so far away that his voice came like 


134 


a sound across broad waters in the gloaming. Her soul 
was full — whether with sorrow or joy she knew not, only 
there was a sense of peace, infinite peace. 

She knew now that when Little Hans should be taken 
away the tenderest heartstrings would break, and there 
would be great pain, but no sorrow — she was through 
with that. For the eternal light was breaking upon her 
vision — the dawn of a new life, the prevision of things 
everlasting. 

At this very moment the first ray of the morning sun lit 
up the pale face of the boy and added its enlivening tint to 
the wan countenance of. the mother. 

Little Hans looked at her in surprise. Whence this 
sudden soul-light in those weary eyes? How had such a 
buoyant spirit been instilled into a body so faint with 
fatigue and grief? 

Henry Falconer, too, was surprised. But deep within 
he heard a voice speak the words, “I am the resurrection, 
and the life: he that believeth in me, though he die, yet 
shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth on me 
shall never die.” 

“Life — wonderful mystery ; death — no less a mys- 
tery; love — greatest mystery of all. We mortals, what 
do we know?” he mused, and back from his own soul 
came the answer, “Nothing.” 

Henry Falconer and his wife had lived in the border- 
land of the world unseen; their love was the reflection 
from the realm of light, and in this light they had lived 


135 


contented. Mortal love was the only god they had wor- 
shiped. Now Harriet had looked beyond the curtain, into 
the realm of the infinite, that world where God is Love. 
But Henry had as yet no such experience. He was still 
in the outer darkness. Yet, to him also things earthly 
had lost their charm, and his eyes were turned elsewhere. 
He sought the vision upon which Harriet’s eyes were 
fixed, but in vain. Of the great transformation that was 
going on within her he saw but the faint outward sign. 



XXI. 

The Martyr’s Deathbed 

In the morning Henry persuaded his wife to give her- 
self a few moments of rest. Little Hans had relapsed into 
a state of lethargy, his pulse-beat giving promise of at 
best a few more hours of life. Harriet retired to her 
room and fell asleep almost instantly on her couch. Hen- 
ry, too, snatched a bit of rest, leaving May to watch at 
the bedside. 

An hour or two of rest after days of weary watching, 
and the parents were again engaged in the struggle for 
their child’s life. Sitting in tense silence at the bedside, 
they saw the boy’s features again distorted by pain. It 
was no longer the face of a child, but that of a man, ren- 
dered almost unrecognizable by the gathering shadows of 
death. Terrible hours were these. 

After having lain for a while with eyes closed and lips 
tightly compressed, he opened them suddenly and cast 
anxious looks about. The mother bent over him to wipe 
the beads from his agonized brow. Meanwhile the door 


137 


opened, and May entered the quiet sick-room and ap- 
proached the bedside. 

She had entered unobserved by Harriet, but Little 
Hans’ roving eyes saw her at once, and lit up with an af- 
fectionate glint. 

“May,” he whispered faintly. 

The mother looked up and found the girl by her side. 
Another might have upbraided her for intruding uncalled 
at such a moment as this, but Harriet, having caught the 
glint in the boy’s eyes, rose and withdrew, resigning to the 
girl her place at the deathbed of her own child.. 

Henry looked with some atonishment at the two women 
— mostly at the mother who yielded to the nurse. Her 
love exalted her at this moment — she was grand in his 
sight. A reflex of that grandeur he recognized in the 
younger woman, who, dismissing her usual reserve, be- 
gan to talk of things spiritual with Little Hans in the 
presence of his parents. What power could give such 
calm and fortitude at the very moment when Death stands 
at the threshold? 

May spoke too low for Henry to hear, but he noticed 
that her words calmed and soothed the boy, and that was 
enough for him to know. 

All of a sudden the frail frame of the child was shaken 
with violent convulsions ; his face grew ghastly in its con- 
tortions, and he threw his little arms about wildly, as if 
fighting off invisible antagonists on all sides. 

Henry Falconer hid his face in his hands, loath to wit- 


138 


ness the awful scene, yet he saw it none the less, breathing 
hard and trembling the while. Harriet made no outcry, 
only fixing an agonized stare at her child, while May 
seized the struggling hands in her own, saying in tones of 
unforgettable tenderness : “We must pray — there is no 
other help.” 

And she prayed in words dictated by her own childlike 
heart, and with a faith that knew of no doubt, until Little 
Hans grew calm and lay entirely still. May’s great 
Friend had been called, and He proved indeed a very 
present help. 

There came a mysterious calm over the mother’s heart. 
She felt the nearness of God, His majesty, His wondrous 
love, and in that moment her heart turned to Him in 
prayer, as if it were the most natural thing. 

She had never prayed before, nor recited prayers, — no 
one had taught her. Her mother had neglected it; her 
father had depended on Miss Rose for that part of her 
Christian training; life and love had failed to teach her 
to turn to God in need; but now that her heart was full 
to overflowing with motherly love and compassion, she 
threw herself upon God’s mercy, whispering: “Dear 
Lord, Thy bosom is our haven — take my child, my Little 
Hans — he is Thine — Thine he has always been.” 

Once again in this life the child of sorrow and joy, the 
sunshine of Sunnycrest, was to smile upon those about 
him. He opened his eyes with a radiant look for May, 


139 


and when his mother leaned over him he whispered just 
- one word — 

“Father.” 

And his father stepped close to the bedside for the last 
farewell. He looked deep into his little son’s eyes, and 
saw that they were bright and clear, no shadow now re- 
maining in their depths. 

“Thank you, my boy, — my dear Little Hans, — thank 
you, and good-bye.” 

Did Little Hans hear his parting words? Possibly not, 
yet he met his father’s last lingering look into his eyes 
with a smile of exquisite tenderness. A kiss on the boy’s 
forehead — another — and Henry Falconer withdrew, al- 
most crushed with grief. 

Now the mother was to bid the beloved child farewell. 
There were no words spoken ; no tears were shed in that 
bitter-sweet parting. So Little Hans crossed the threshold 
of the eternal world, his hand still clinging to that of his 
mother, while in the little martyr’s pale face dawned the 
light of the life to be. 

But a bond had been tied hard and fast between the 
visible w r orld and the unseen. Little Hans, though dead, 
yet lived, — there in the fulness of hope attained, here in 
the tender memory of those left behind. 



XXII. 

Springtime at Last 

The death of Little Hans caused no great outward 
changes in the daily life of the family. His going had 
been so long expected ; furthermore, he had for a long time 
been living almost in a world by himself. That little 
sphere was now set apart as a sanctuary for father and 
mother, when Harriet locked the door to Little Hans’s 
room, denying admittance to all others. 

In this room Harriet lived through again and again the 
events and anxieties of the deathbed ; here she heard her 
child’s faint voice, felt his tiny arms about her neck, saw 
him wing his flight into the radiance of eternity’s dawn. 
This was now the only joy left to her. When compelled 
to take part in the temporal concerns which placed so great 
requirements on the mistress of Sunnycrest, she went 
about her duties listlessly and with utter lack of interest 
in it all. 

As time passed and the memory of Little Hans faded 
out of people’s minds, they levied on Harriet’s interest 


1 4 1 

from all sides. The other boys demanded attention; and 
Henry craved her love more than ever, yet the warm af- 
fection of former days seemed lacking. The kind words, 
the warm interest, the loving heart for which she had been 
known, — all seemed to have vanished ; and the kindliness 
which she sought to show seemed forced and unreal. Her 
heart was not in it. It was still chained to the memory 
of her boy. 

But a change to the better must come. She locked the 
little sanctuary, and went out in active life again with a 
firm resolve to make a stronger fight than ever before to 
better the world around her, as her own life had been 
regenerated and purified. 

O, for the sin, the want, the suffering, the depravity 
about her! 

Sin — aye, that was a new concept in her present 
sphere of thought. She attended church regularly now, 
and conceived the highest respect and the deepest sympathy 
for the man who filled her father’s pulpit. 

He spoke of sin quite as much as old Dean Malm had 
spoken of love. He saw clearly the trail of the Evil One 
in the world, the bonds that held men captive, the vices 
that corrupted their souls, and he called it all by its right 
name — sin. And in his fight for the souls of men, for 
regeneration and reclamation, he had no more energetic 
assistant in the parish than the mistress of Sunnycrest. 

The parish, however, proved as obdurate as ever, and 
his efforts were no more successful than had been those of 


142 


the old parson in the earlier years of his pastorate. His 
knocking at the doors of the people’s hearts and consciences 
proved as futile as though they were walls of rock or gates 
of brass. 

Eventually the pastor grew weary of the task and left. 
A number of well recommended men applied in due form 
for the place made vacant, for the parish, such as it was, 
had grown very prosperous in material things. 

All these were rejected, and the parish finally issued a 
unanimous call to the Rev. Axel Malm, son of Dean 
Malm. On that day Harriet realized that her father’s 
labors in this field had not been in vain; that without his 
efforts Henry Falconer and she herself would not have 
succeeded as they did and even might have failed. 

It was a great day in the annals of the parish when 
Pastor Axel Malm was called to the rectory. All faces 
shone with joy as the people left the church, and when 
Henry and Harriet came to visit the graves where slept 
Little Hans beside the great Hans, his grandfather, and 
he beside his beloved Magnhild, they found to their sur- 
prise and pleasure that the three graves were covered with 
flowers. 

And as they stood there gazing through tears of grati- 
tude at the floral tribute, these same peasants whose hard 
hearts the previous pastor had been unable to budge came, 
one by one, their wives at their sides, and pressed the hands 
of Harriet and Henry with unfeigned cordiality. There 
was tender light in every eye. Had Magnhild stood there 


H3 


now, she could have pointed to face after face and said, 
“Look — look, I knew that the ice would melt, and spring 
•would come at last.” 

Henry and Harriet walked home in silence. After this 
— what was to follow? 




XXIII. 

“The Greatest of These Is Love” 

The Sunday when Axel Malm was to preach his first 
sermon in his home church was a bright autumn day with 
a clear blue sky above all the wealth of nature’s colors 
glowing in the sun. People started for church early and 
as they approached from all points it seemed as though 
every one would attend services that morning, whatever 
distance he had to travel. 

On a day like this the peasant folk in holiday attire had 
no ear for the mocking laughter of the Lady of the Woods, 
— they heard but the peculiar solemnity in the ringing of 
the church bells. There was a joyousness in their chimes 
that seemed a reecho from the happy and expectant hearts 
of the worshipers. 

The face of Pastor Axel Malm was radiant with an 
inner light as he looked out over the great congregation 
from his father’s pulpit. These were the people his fa- 
ther and mother had loved ; among them he was to labor ; 


145 


this was the flock for which he was to render account on 
the great day of reckoning. Such were the thoughts that 
stirred within him at that moment, and he realized his 
responsibility to the full. 

And as he bowed his head in silent prayer before begin- 
ning his sermon, he heard a voice in his heart whisper the 
words once spoken to the prophet Daniel: 

“O man greatly beloved, fear not: peace be unto thee, 
be strong, yea, be strong.” Axel Malm felt himself 
strengthened, and his heart answered, “Let my lord speak ; 
for thou has strengthened me.” 

When he began to speak, the people all felt that he was 
one of them, for he spoke of their life, their sufferings, 
their strife and need, as one who feels for those bending 
under their burdens. Every heart recognized its own 
travail ; all owned that the preacher’s description of their 
besetting sins and pet transgressions was true. Those 
steeped in vice were obliged to admit that they fell deeper 
every time they fell; the greedy, that their hearts grew 
ever harder as they hoarded their pelf. He was the son 
of old Parson Malm, he knew their needs as had his 
father before him. That very thing gave him an instant 
grip on these people’s hearts. 

“There is therefore now no condemnation to them that 
are in Christ Jesus” — these were the words which led 
up to the application. There was an end of the descrip- 
tion of the darkness, the sinfulness, the bonds, the hope- 
lessness of this life, and the gates of the kingdom of God 


Declaimed. 6. 


146 

were thrown ajar; now condemnation ceased, for with 
Christ Jesus coming into the sermon the gospel of mercy 
was held out to all who would accept. At the close he put 
all his heart into the mighty appeal of the Saviour, “Come 
unto me.” — “Come, you who hunger, you who thirst, you 
who weep, you who labor and are heavy-laden, come, all, 
come unto Him who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life.” 

He paused an instant to let the appeal sink into the 
hearts of the hearers, then closed with the gentle invitation, 
as if coming from them, “Lord, abide with us; for it is 
toward evening, and the day is far spent.” 

The people had come to church in a festive mood ; not 
one of them but returned home with heart touched by the 
solemnity of the day. While homeward bound and all 
through the following week of toil many a parishioner 
found his thoughts running in new channels. 

Harriet was probably the one most profoundly im- 
pressed. While her brother spoke she drank in every word, 
as the thirsty ground absorbs the raindrops after a long 
drouth. 

When at the conclusion of the services she stepped out 
into the bright sunshine, the picture of the Son of Man was 
still before her; she saw His majesty and purity as never 
before; meanwhile every beam of sunlight, every flower, 
every tree decked in the colorful garb of autumn, seemed 
a messenger proclaiming God’s mercy and loving kindness. 
She felt that in her own nothingness His abounding love 
and grace made her truly rich and happy. 


147 

The grave of Little Hans was remembered that day, as 
always, but not with flowers. As she stood beside the little 
mound, she felt the hope of eternal life springing up in 
her breast, a hope greater than that which lay buried 
under the sod. It became clear to her then and there that 
his memory, however sacred, was not the greatest thing 
in her life. The Friend that Little Hans had spoken of 
was now her Friend indeed; he had been the guide point- 
ing her to the gateway of the kingdom of God, — how 
could she but enter? 

* * * 

These were remarkable days for the mistress of Sunny- 
crest — spring days in the midst of autumnal dormancy 
and death. 

She made frequent evening visits to the parsonage, con- 
fiding her spiritual experience to her brother, who under- 
stood her so well. She came to him like a beam of light 
from another world. It was not the same death-weary 
woman, on her regular evening visit to the churchyard ; it 
was a new, a regenerated soul that now came on angel 
visits to his home. 

Her brother saw and marveled. His had been a long, 
dismal way, full of doubt and struggle, before the scales 
fell from his eyes and he was given to see the true Light. 
To him, therefore, it was unbelievable, a very miracle, that 
his sister had so quickly turned from material to spiritual 
things. 

Harriet Falconer had been very happy in the posses- 


1 48 

sion of worldly blessings, and rich in the affection of her 
husband and the love of her children ; but when the riches 
and glory of the mystery of the Christ-life was made mani- 
fest to her, she counted all else a loss until that had been 
gained. Little Hans had truly been the messenger of 
“love and life.” Dean Malm’s prediction had now come 
true: the boy was indeed to her a child of sorrow and 
joy — profound sorrow, in truth, but in the end consum- 
mate joy. 

* * * 

Axel Malm and his sister took a sleigh ride to the coun- 
try over the fine roads after the first snowfall. The min- 
ister did his own driving, and brother and sister sat to- 
gether in such close intimacy as they had never known be- 
fore. It was the intimacy of silence mostly, their hearts 
and minds being so bound up in common interests that 
there was little need of speech. 

Harriet suddenly broke the silence. 

“Tell me, Axel, how did you find your former charge?” 

“Well, there’s not much to say; you know the outcome,” 
he replied. 

“Yes, I know that, but I should like to hear something 
about the start — let me call it the springtime — the 
breaking of the ground,” she pursued. 

After a moment’s thought, he went on: 

“Springtime, you say. That’s the word. But where 
shall I begin, for, do you know, it has always been spring- 
time to me. I was always filled with the joy of living, 


149 

ever since I can remember. All the things I cherished, the 
beautiful, the true, — these I now prize more highly still. 
All are glorified by faith in God. But there was a time 
when I did not discern that glory ; about the time I visited 
Sunnycrest and heard you and Henry sing your song of 
praise to Love. That affected me a little, but I was still 
more moved by the change I discovered in father. It was 
but natural that two young persons should be happy in the 
springtime of their mutual affection, but to see new life 
spring into being in an old man — there was the real 
miracle. For ‘How can a man be born when he is old?’ 

‘ Upon his advice I took up studies for the ministry. I 
cherished the hope that in theology I might find the solu- 
tion to the problem of life which 1 had sought in vain in 
philosophy. I found light, in a small measure, ’tis true, 
but light nonetheless. 

“With that divine ray shining before my mind’s eye, I 
was ordained and accepted a charge in the backwoods 
away to northward. This I did in the full confidence 
that if this light was of God, it would grew clearer to me, 
and would make others see as well. Far from home and 
friends, yet I was very happy. My music was the song of 
the primeval forest ; my books were the plain people among 
whom I lived, and their love was my joy. 

“That was music far beyond anything I had yet heard ; 
those living books were a greater study than any learned 
tome in the university library. I had come as a teach- 
er; but I learnt more while there than during all my 


150 


years of study. Among those simple, God-fearing people 
I learnt to know what true Christianity is. I began to 
see the difference between life and doctrine, between the 
letter and the Spirit. 

“You can readily understand how I enjoyed life in this 
new environment. And yet, when the call came from here, 
I could hardly contain myself for joy, for, after all, what 
place was ever like home.” 

The answer was complete. 

They rode on in silent contemplation. 

* * * 

Two years later there was an added feature in the cele- 
bration of the Christmas holidays at Sunnycrest — the 
ceremony by which May, the nurse and teacher of Little 
Hans, became the wife of Pastor Axel Malm. Thus she 
was to return as mistress to the parsonage which to her, 
as servant, had become the most beloved spot on earth. 
Not until she came there had she begun to live, it seemed 
to her, and now that she was to be the soul of that cherish- 
ed manse, her cup of happiness was full to overflowing. 

Harriet and Henry were standing side by side at the 
window, looking out over the light-spangled town below, 
and up to the starlit vault above. There hearts, too, were 
full that night. 

At the close of the festivity, the bridegroom himself 
conducted the evening devotional, reading with glowing 
heart the Apostle’s words on human and divine love, as 
addressed to the faithful in the city of Corinth : — 


“If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, 
but have not love, I am become sounding brass, or a 
clanging cymbal. 

“And if I have the gift of prophecy, and know all 
mysteries and all knowledge; and if I have all faith, 
so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am 
nothing. 

“And if I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and 
if I give my body to be burned, but have not love, it 
profiteth me nothing. 

“Love suffereth long, and is kind ; love envieth not ; 
love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not 
behave itself unseemly, seeketh not its own, is not 
provoked, taketh not account of evil; rejoiceth not in 
unrighteousness, but rejoiceth with the truth ; beareth 
all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, en- 
dureth all things. 

“Love never faileth : but whether there be prophe- 
cies, they shall be done away ; whether there be 
tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowl- 
edge, it shall be done away. 

“For we know in part, and we prophesy in part; 
but when that which is perfect is come, that which is 
in part shall be done away. 

“When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I felt as 
a child, I thought as a child : now that I am become 
a man, I have put away childish things. 

“For now we see in a mirror, darkly; but then 


152 


face to face : now I know in part ; but then shall I 
know fully even as also I was fully known. 

“But now abideth faith, hope, love, these three; 
and the greatest of these is love.” 





























